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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


CHARLES  DARNAY  AND  TIIE  MARQUIS, 


TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


AND 


GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


PORTER  & COATES, 


PHILADELPHIA. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


944 ( 83 


I 


PREFACE 


When  I was  acting,  with  my  children  and  friends,  in  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins’s  drama  of  The  Frozen  Deep,  I first  conceived  the  main 
idea  of  this  story.  A strong  desire  was  upon  me  then,  to  embody 
it  in  my  own  person  $ and  I traced  out  in  my  fancy,  the  state  of 
mind  of  which  it  would  necessitate  the  presentation  to  an  observant 
spectator,  with  particular  care  and  interes' . 

As  the  idea  became  familiar  to  me,  it  gradually  shaped  itself  into 
its  present  form.  Throughout  its  execution,  it  has  had  complete 
possession  of  me  $ I have  so  far  verified  what  is  done  and  suffered  in 
these  pages,  as  that  I have  certainly  done  and  suffered  it  all  myself. 

Whenever  any  reference  (however  slight)  is  made  here  to  the  con- 
dition of  the  French  people  before  or  during  the  Revolution,  it  is 
truly  made,  on  the  faith  of  trustworthy  witnesses.  It  has  been  one 
of  my  hopes  to  add  something  to  the  popular  and  picturesque  means 
of  understanding  that  terrible  time,  though  no  one  can  hope  to  add 
anything  to  the  philosophy  of  Mr.  Carlyle’s  wouderful  book. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


fti  %\xn  §oolis. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST.  RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 

♦ 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  PERIOD. 

was  ihe  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of  times,  it  was  the  age  of  wisdom, 
it  *ras  rnc  age  of  foolishness,  it  was  the  epoch  of  belief,  it  was  the  epoch  of  in- 
crtrwdity,  it  was  the  season  of  Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Darkness,  it  was  the 
spring  of  hope,  it  was  the  winter  of  despair,  we  had  everything  before  us,  we  had 
nothing  before  us,  we  were  all  going  direct  to  Heaven,  we  were  all  going  direct 
the  other  way — in  short,  the  period  was  so  far  like  the  present  period,  that  some 
of  its  noisiest  authorities  insisted  on  its  being  received,  for  good  or  for  evil,  in 
the  superlative  degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were  a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a queen  with  a plain  face,  on  the  throne 
of  England  ; there  were  a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a queen  with  a fair  face,  on 
the  throne  of  France.  In  both  countries  it  was  clearer  than  crystal  to  the  lords 
of  the  State  preserves  of  loaves  and  fishes,  that  things  in  general  were  settled  for 
ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five. 
Spiritual  revelations  were  conceded  to  England  at  that  favoured  period,  as  at  this. 
Mrs.  Southcott  had  recently  attained  her  five-and-twentieth  blessed  birthday, 
of  whom  a prophetic  private  in  the  Life  Guards  had  heralded  the  sublime  appear- 
ance by  announcing  that  arrangements  were  made  for  the  swallowing  up  of 
London  and  Westminster.  Even  the  Cock-lane  ghost  had  been  laid  only  a round 
dozen  of  years,  after  rapping  out  its  messages,  as  the  spirits  of  this  very  year  last 
past  (supematurally  deficient  in  originality)  rapped  out  theirs.  Mere  messages  in 
the  earthly  order  of  events  had  lately  come  to  the  English  Crown  and  People, 
from  a congress  of  British  subjects  in  America  : which,  strange  to  relate,  have 
proved  more  important  to  the  human  race  than  any  communication*  ^et  received 
through  any  of  the  chickens  of  the  Cock -lane  brood. 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


% 


France,  less  favoured  on  the  whole  as  to  matters  spiritual  than  her  sister  of  the 
shield  and  trident,  rolled  with  exceeding  smoothness  down  hill,  making  paper 
money  and  spending  it.  Under  the  guidance  of  her  Christian  pastors,  she  enter- 
tained herself,  besides,  with  such  humane  achievements  as  sentencing  a youth  to 
have  his  hands  cut  off,  his  tongue  torn  out  with  pincers,  and  his  body  burned 
alive,  because  he  had  not  kneeled  down  in  the  rain  to  do  honour  to  a dirty  pro- 
cession of  monks  which  passed  within  his  view,  at  a distance  of  some  fifty  o? 
sixty  yards.  It  is  likely  enough  that,  rooted  in  the  woods  of  France  and  Norway, 
there  were  growing  trees,  when  that  sufferer  was  put  to  death,  already  marked  b> 
the  Woodman,  Fate,  to  come  down  and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a certain 
movable  framework  with  a sack  and  a knife  in  it,  terrible  in  history.  It  is  likely 
enough  that  in  the  rough  outhouses  of  some  tillers  of  the  heavy  lands  adjacent  to 
Paris,  there  were  sheltered  from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rude  carts,  bespattered 
with  rustic  mire,  snuffed  about  by  pigs,  and  roosted  in  by  poultry,  which  the 
Farmer,  Death,  had  already  set  apart  to  be  his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution.  But 
that  Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work  unceasingly,  work  silently, 
and  no  one  heard  them  as  they  went  about  with  muffled  tread  : the  rather,  foras- 
much as  to  entertain  any  suspicion  that  they  were  awake,  was  to  be  atheistical 
and  traitorous. 

In  England,  there  was  scarcely  an  amount  of  order  and  protection  to  justify 
much  national  boasting.  Daring  burglaries  by  armed  men,  and  highway  robberies, 
took  place  in  the  capital  itself  every  night ; families  were  publicly  cautioned  not 
to  go  out  of  town  without  removing  their  furniture  to  upholsterers’  warehouses 
for  security  ; the  highwayman  in  the  dark  was  a City  tradesman  in  the  light,  and, 
being  recognised  and  challenged  by  his  fellow-tradesman  whom  he  stopped  in  his 
character  of  “ the  Captain,”  gallantly  shot  him  through  the  head  and  rode  away ; 
the  mail  was  waylaid  by  seven  robbers,  and  the  guard  shot  three  dead,  and  then 
got  shot  dead  himself  by  the  other  four,  “ in  consequence  of  the  failure  of  his 
ammunition  : ” after  which  the  mail  was  robbed  in  peace  ; that  magnificent  poten- 
tate, the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  was  made  to  stand  and  deliver  on  Turnham 
Green,  by  one  highwayman,  who  despoiled  the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of  all 
his  retinue ; prisoners  in  London  gaols  fought  battles  with  their  turnkeys,  and  the 
majesty  of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses  in  among  them,  loaded  with  rounds  of  shot 
and  ball ; thieves  snipped  off  diamond  crosses  from  the  necks  of  noble  lords  at 
Court  drawing-rooms  ; musketeers  went  into  St.  Giles’s,  to  search  for  contraband 
goods,  and  the  mob  fired  on  the  musketeers,  and  the  musketeers  fired  on  the  mob, 
and  nobody  thought  any  of  these  occurrences  much  out  of  the  common  way.  In 
the  midst  of  them,  the  hangman,  ever  busy  and  ever  worse  than  useless,  was  in 
constant  requisition  ; now,  stringing  up  long  rows  of  miscellaneous  criminals  ; 
now,  hanging  a housebreaker  on  Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on  Tuesday  ; now, 
burning  people  in  the  hand  at  Newgate  by  the  dozen,  and  now  burning  pamphlets 
at  the  door  of  Westminster  Hah  ; to-day,  taking  the  life  of  an  atrocious  murderer, 
and  to  morruvF  of  a wretched  pilferer  who  had  robbed  a farmer’s  boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things,  and  a thousand  like  them,  came  to  pass  in  and  close  upon  the 
dear  old  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five.  Environed  by  them, 
while  the  Woodman  and  the  Farmer  worked  unheeded,  those  two  of  the  large \ 
jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the  plain  and  the  fair  faces,  trod  with  stir  enough,  and  1 
carried  their  divine  rights  with  a high  hand.  Thus  did  the  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five  conduct  their  Greatnesses,  and  myriads  of  small 
creatures — the  creatures  of  this  chronicle  among  the  rest — along  the  roads  thal 
'►ay  before  them. 


Mail-coach  Passengers . 


3 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MAIL. 

Ii  was  the  Dover  road  that  lay,  on  a Friday  night  late  in  November,  before  the 
first  of  the  peisons  with  whom  this  history  has  business.  The  Dover  road  la}*,  as 
to  him,  beyond  the  Dover  mail,  as  it  lumbered  up  Shooter’s  Hill.  He  walked  up- 
hill in  the  mire  by  the  side  of  the  mail,  as  the  rest  of  the  passengers  did  ; not 
because  they  had  the  least  relish  for  walking  exercise,  under  the  circumstances, 
but  because  the  hill,  and  the  harness,  and  the  mud,  and  the  mail,  were  all  so 
heavy,  that  the  horses  had  three  times  already  come  to  a stop,  besides  once  draw- 
ing the  coach  across  the  road,  with  the  mutinous  intent  of  taking  it  back  to 
Blackheath.  Reins  and  whip  and  coachman  and  guard,  however,  in  combination, 
had  read  that  article  of  war  which  forbad  a purpose  otherwise  strongly  in  favour 
of  the  argument,  that  some  brute  animals  are  endued  with  Reason ; and  the  team 
had  capitulated  and  returned  to  their  duty. 

With  drooping  heads  and  tremulous  tails,  they  mashed  their  way  through  the 
thick  mud,  floundering  and  stumbling  between  whiles,  as  if  they  were  falling  to 
pieces  at  the  larger  joints.  As  often  as  the  driver  rested  them  and  brought  them 
to  a stand,  with  a wary  “ Wo-ho  ! so-ho  then  ! ” the  near  leader  violently  shook 
his  head  and  everything  upon  it — like  an  unusually  emphatic  horse,  denying  that 
the  coach  could  be  got  up  the  hill.  Whenever  the  leader  made  this  rattle,  the 
passenger  started,  as  a nervous  passenger  might,  and  was  disturbed  in  mind. 

There  was  a steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows,  and  it  had  roamed  in  its  forlorn- 
ness up  the  hill,  like  an  evil  spirit,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  A clammy  and 
intensely  cold  mist,  it  made  its  slow  way  through  the  air  in  ripples  that  visibly 
followed  and  overspread  one  another,  as  the  waves  of  an  unwholesome  sea  might 
do.  It  was  dense  enough  to  shut  out  everything  from  the  light  of  the  coach-lamps 
but  these  its  own  workings,  and  a few  yards  of  road  ; and  the  reek  of  the  labour- 
ing horses  steamed  into  it,  as  if  they  had  made  it  all. 

Two  other  passengers,  besides  the  one,  were  plodding  up  the  hill  by  the  side 
of  the  mail.  All  three  were  wrapped  to  the  cheek-bones  and  over  the  ears,  and 
wore  jack -boots.  Not  one  of  the  three  could  have  said,  from  anything  he  saw, 
what  either  of  the  other  two  was  like  ; and  each  was  hidden  under  almost  as 
many  wrappers  from  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  as  from  the  eyes  of  the  body,  of  his 
two  companions.  In  those  days,  travellers  were  very  shy  of  being  confidential  on 
a short  notice,  for  anybody  on  the  road  might  be  a robber  or  in  league  with 
robbers.  As  to  the  latter,  when  every  posting-house  and  ale-house  could  produce 
somebody  in  “ the  Captain’s  ” pay,  ranging  from  the  landlord  to  the  lowest  stable 
nondescript,  it  was  the  likeliest  thing  upon  the  cards.  So  the  guard  of  the  Dover 
mail  thought  to  himself,  that  Friday  night  in  November,  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  seventy-five,  lumbering  up  Shooter’s  Hill,  as  he  stood  on  his  own 
particular  perch  behind  the  mail,  beating  his  feet,  and  keeping  an  eye  and  a hand 
on  the  arm-chest  before  him,  where  a loaded  blunderbuss  lay  at  the  top  of  six  or 
eight  loaded  horse-pistols,  deposited  on  a substratum  of  cutlass. 

The  Dover  mail  was  in  its  usu^l  genial  position  that  the  guard  suspected  the 
passengers,  the  passengers  suspected  one  another  and  the  guard,  they  all  suspected 
everybody  else,  and  the  coachman  was  sure  of  nothing  but  the  horses  ; as  to  which 
cattle  he  could  with  a clear  conscience  have  taken  his  oath  on  the  two  Testaments 
that  they  were  not  fit  for  the  journey. 

“ W>ho  ! ” said  the  coachman.  “ So,  then!  One  more  pull  and  you’re  at 


4.  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


the  top  ard  be  damned  to  you,  for  I have  had  trouble  enough  to  get  you  to  it  !— 
Joe ! ” 

“ Halloa  ! ” the  guard  replied. 

“ What  o’clock  do  you  make  it,  Joe  ? ” 

“ Ten  minutes,  good,  past  eleven.”  % 

“ My  blood  ! ” ejaculated  the  vexed  coachman,  “ and  not  atop  of  Shooter’s  yet ! 
Tst ! Yah  ! Get  on  with  you  ! ” 

The  emphatic  horse,  cut  short  by  the  whip  in  a most  decided  negative,  made  a 
decided  scramble  for  it,  and  the  three  other  horses  followed  suit.  Once  more, 
the  Dover  mail  struggled  on,  with  the  jack-boots  of  its  passengers  squashing 
along  by  its  side.  They  had  stopped  when  the  coach  stopped,  and  they  kept  close 
company  with  it.  If  any  one  of  the  three  had  had  the  hardihood  to  propose  to 
another  to  walk  on  a little  ahead  into  the  mist  and  darkness,  he  would  have  put 
himself  in  a fair  way  of  getting  shot  instantly  as  a highwayman. 

The  last  burst  carried  the  mail  to  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  horses  stopped 
to  breathe  again,  and  the  guard  got  down  to  skid  the  wheel  for  the  descent,  and 
open  the  coach-door  to  let  the  passengers  in. 

“ Tst!  Joe !”  cried  the  coachman  in  a warning  voice,  looking  down  from  his  box 
“ What  do  you  say,  Tom  ? ” 

They  both  listened. 

“ I say  a horse  at  a canter  coming  up,  Joe.” 

“/ say  a horse  at  a gallop,  Tom,”  returned  the  guard,  leaving  his  hold  of  the 
door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to  his  place.  “ Gentlemen ! In  the  king’s  name,  all 
of  you  ! ” 

With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunderbuss,  and  stood  on  the 
offensive. 

The  passenger  booked  by  this  history,  was  on  the  coach-step,  getting  in ; the 
two  other  passengers  were  close  behind  him,  and  about  to  follow.  He  remained 
on  the  step,  half  in  thejcoach  and  half  out  of ; they  remained  in  the  road  below 
him.  They  all  looked  from  the  coachman  to  the  guard,  and  from  the  guard  to  the 
coachman,  and  listened.  The  coachman  looked  back  and  the  guard  looked  back, 
and  even  the  emphatic  leader  pricked  up  his  ears  and  looked  back,  without  con 
tradicting. 

The  stillness  consequent  on  the  cessation  of  the  rumbling  and  labouring  of  the 
coach,  added  to  the  stillness  of  the  night,  made  it  very  quiet  indeed.  The  pant- 
ing of  the  horses  communicated  a tremulous  motion  to  the  coach,  as  if  it  were  in 
a state  of  agitation.  The  hearts  of  the  passengers  beat  loud  enough  perhaps  to 
be  heard  ; but  at  any  rate,  the  quiet  pause  was  audibly  expressive  of  people  out  o* 
breath,  and  holding  the  breath,  and  having  the  pulses  quickened  by  expectation. 
The  sound  of  a horse  at  a gallop  came  fast  and  furiously  up  the  hill. 

“ So-ho  !”  the  guard  sang  out,  as  loud  as  he  could  roar.  “ Yo  there  ! Stand  ! 
I shall  fire!” 

The  pace  was  suddenly  checked,  and,  with  much  splashing  and  floundering,  a 
man’s  voice  called  from  the  mist,  “ Is  that  the  Dover  mail  ?” 

“ Never  you  mind  what  it  is  ?”  the  guard  retorted.  “ What  are  you  ?” 

“ Is  that  the  Dover  mail  ?” 

“ Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?” 

“ I want  a passenger,  if  it  is.” 

“ What  passenger  ?” 

“ Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry.” 

Our  booked  passenger  showed  in  a moment  that  it  was  his  name.  The  guard, 
th  e coachman,  and  the  two  other  passengers  eyed  him  distrustfully. 

“ Keep  where  you  are,”  the  guard  called  to  the  voice  in  the  mist,  “ because,  ii 


A Messenger  on  horseback . 5 

I should  make  a mistake,  it  could  never  be  set  right  in  your  lifetime.  Gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Lorry  answer  straight.” 

“ What  is  the  matter  ?”  asked  the  passenger,  then,  with  mildly  quavering  speech. 
“Who  wants  me  ? Is  it  Jerry  ?” 

. (•*  I don’t  like  Jerry’s  voice,  if  it  is  Jerry,”  growled  the  guard  to  himself.  u He’i 

hoarser  than  suits  me,  is  Jerry.”} 

“Yes,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ What  is  the  matter  ?” 

“ A despatcii  sent  after  you  from  over  yonder.  T.  and  Co.” 

“ I know  this  messenger,  guard,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  getting  down  into  the  road — 
assisted  from  behind  more  swiftly  than  politely  by  the  other  two  passengers,  who 
immediately  scrambled  into  the  coach,  shut  the  door,  and  pulled  up  the  window. 
“ He  may  come  close  ; there’s  nothing  wrong.” 

“ I hope  there  ain’t,  but  I can’t  make  so  ’Nation  sure  of  that,”  said  the  guard, 
in  gruff  soliloquy.  “ Hallo  you  1” 

“Well ! And  hallo  you  !”  said  Jerry,  more  hoarsely  than  before. 

“ Come  on  at  a footpace  ! d’ye  mind  me  ? And  if  you’ve  got  holsters  to  that 
saddle  o’yourn,  don’t  let  me  see  your  hand  go  nigh  ’em.  For  I’m  a devil  at  a 
quick  mistake,  and  when  I make  one  it  takes  the  form  of  Lead.  So  now  let’s 
look  at  you.” 

The  figures  of  a horse  and  rider  came  slowly  through  the  eddying  mist,  and 
came  to  the  side  of  the  mail,  where  the  passenger  stood.  The  rider  stooped,  and, 
casting  up  his  eyes  at  the  guard,  handed  the  passenger  a small  folded  paper.  The 
rider’s  horse  was  blown,  and  both  horse  and  rider  were  covered  with  mud,  from 
the  hoofs  of  the  horse  to  the  hat  of  the  man. 

“ Guard  !”  said  the  passenger,  in  a tone  of  quiet  business  confidence. 

The  watchful  guard,  w;th  his  right  hand  at  the  stock  of  his  raised  blunderbuss, 
his  left  at  the  barrel,  and  his  eye  on  the  horseman,  answered  curtly,  “ Sir.” 

“ There  is  nothing  to  apprehend.  I belong  to  Tellson’s  Bank.  You  must  know 
Tellson’s  Bank  in  London.  I am  going  to  Paris  on  business.  A crown  to  drink. 
1 may  read  this  .?” 

“ If  so  be  as  you’re  quick,  sir.” 

He  opened  it  in  the  light  of  the  coach-lamp  on  that  side,  and  read — first  to 
himself  and  then  aloud : “ £ Wait  at  Dover  for  Mam’selle.’  It’s  not  long,  you 
see,  guard.  Jerry,  say  that  my  answer  was,  RECALLED  TO  LIFE.” 

Jerry  started  in  his  saddle.  “ That’s  a Blazing  strange  answer,  too,”  said  he, 
at  his  hoarsest. 

“ Take  that  message  back,  and  they  will  know  that  I received  this,  as  well  as  if  I 
wrote.  Make  the  best  of  your  way.  Good  night.” 

With  those  words  the  passenger  opened  the  coach-door  and  got  in ; not  at  all 
assisted  by  his  fellow-passengers,  who  had  expeditiously  secreted  their  watches 
and  purses  in  their  boots,  and  were  now  making  a general  pretence  of  being  asleep. 
With  no  more  definite  purpose  than  to  escape  the  hazard  of  originating  any  other 
kind  of  action. 

The  coach  lumbered  on  again,  with  heavier  wreaths  of  mist  closing  round  it  as 
it  began  the  descent.  The  guard  soon  replaced  his  blunderbuss  in  his  arm-chest, 
and,  having  looked  to  the  rest  of  its  contents,  and  having  looked  to  the  supple- 
mentary pistols  that  he  wore  in  his  belt,  looked  to  a smaller  chest  beneath  his  seat, 
in  which  there  were  a few  smith’s  tools,  a couple  of  torches,  and  a tinder-box. 
For  he  was  furnished  with  that  completeness  that  if  the  coach-lamps  had  been 
blown  and  stormed  out,  which  did  occasionally  happen,  he  had  only  to  shut  him- 
self up  inside,  keep  the  flint  and  steel  sparks  well  oil  the  straw,  and  get  a light 
with  tolerable  safety  and  ease  (if  he  were  lucky)  in  five  minutes. 


6 A Tale  of  Two  Cities* 


“ Tom  !”  softly  over  the  coach-roof. 

“ Hallo,  Joe.” 

“ Did  you  hear  the  message  ?” 

“ I did,  Joe.” 

“ What  did  you  make  of  it,  Tom  ?” 

“ Nothing  at  all,  Joe.” 

“ Thai’s  a coincidence,  too,”  the  guard  mused,  “for  I made  the  same  of  it 

myself.” 

Jerry,  left  alone  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  dismounted  meanwhile,  not  only 
to  ease  his  spent  horse,  but  to  wipe  the  mud  from  his  face,  and  shake  the  wet  out 
of  his  hat-brim,  which  might  be  capable  of  holding  about  half  a gallon.  After 
standing  with  the  bridle  over  his  heavily-splashed  arm,  until  the  wheels  of  the 
mail  were  no  longer  within  hearing  and  the  night  was  quite  still  again,  he  turned 
to  walk  down  the  hill. 

“After  that  there  gallop  from  Temple  Bar,  old  lady,  I won’t  trust  your  fore- 
legs till  I get  you  on  the  level,”  said  this  hoarse  messenger,  glancing  at  his  mare. 
" * Recalled  to  life.’  That’s  a Blazing  strange  message.  Much  of  that  wouldn’t 
do  for  you,  Jerry  ! I say,  Jerry  ! You’d  be  in  a Blazing  bad  way,  if  recalling  to 
life  was  to  come  into  fashion,  Jerry  !” 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  NIGHT  SHADOWS. 

A WONDERFUL  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every  human  creature  is  constituted  to  be 
that  profound  secret  and  mystery  to  every  other.  A solemn  consideration,  when  I 
enter  a great  city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  darkly  clustered  houses  encloses 
its  own  secret ; that  every  room  in  every  one  of  them  encloses  its  own  secret ; 
that  every  beating  heart  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  breasts  there,  is, 
in  some  of  its  imaginings,  a secret  to  the  heart  nearest  it ! Something  of  the 
awfulness,  even  of  Death  itself,  is  referable  to  this.  No  more  can  I turn  the 
leaves  of  this  dear  book  that  I loved,  and  vainly  hope  in  time  to  read  it  all.  No 
more  can  I look  into  the  depths  of  this  unfathomable  water,  wherein,  as  momen- 
tary lights  glanced  into  it,  I have  had  glimpses  of  buried  treasure  and  other  things 
submerged.  It  was  appointed  that  the  book  should  shut  with  a spring,  for  ever 
and  for  ever,  when  I had  read  but  a page.  It  was  appointed  that  the  water  should 
be  locked  in  an  eternal  frost,  when  the  light  was  playing  on  its  surface,  and  I 
stood  in  ignorance  on  the  shore.  My  friend  is  dead,  my  neighbour  is  dead,  my 
love,  the  darling  of  my  soul,  is  dead  ; it  is  the  inexorable  consolidation  and  per- 
petuation of  the  secret  that  was  always  in  that  individuality,  and  which  I shall 
carry  in  mine  to  my  life’s  end.  In  any  of  the  burial-places  of  this  city  through 
which  I pass,  is  there  a sleeper  more  inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in 
their  innermost  personality,  to  me,  or  than  I am  to  them  ? 

As  to  this,  his  natural  and  not  to  be  alienated  inheritance,  the  messenger  on 
horseback  had  exactly  the  same  possessions  as  the  King,  the  first  Minister  of 
State,  or  the  richest  merchant  in  London.  So  with  the  three  passengers  shut  up  in 
the  narrow  compass  of  one  lumbering  old  mail  coach ; they  were  mysteries  to  one 
another,  as  complete  as  if  each  had  been  in  his  own  coach  and  six,  or  his  own 
coach  and  sixty,  with  the  breadth  of  a county  between  him  and  the  next. 

The  messenger  rode  back  at  an  easy  trot,  stopping  pretty  often  at  ale-houses 
by  the  way  to  drink,  but  evincing  a tendency  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  to  keep 


Human  Inscrutability . 


7 


his  hat  cocked  over  his  eyes.  He  had  eyes  that  assorted  very  well  with  that 
decoration,  being  of  a surface  black,  with  no  depth  in  the  colour  or  form,  and 
much  too  near  together — as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being  found  out  in  something, 
singly,  if  they  kept  too  far  apart.  They  had  a sinister  expression,  under  an  old 
cocked -hat  like  a three-cornered  spittoon,  and  over  a great  muffler  for  the  chin  and 
throat,  which  descended  nearly  to  the  wearer’s  knees.  When  he  stopped  for 
drink,  he  moved  this  muffler  with  his  left  hand,  only  while  he  poured  his  liquor  in 
with  his  right ; as  soon  as  that  was  done,  he  muffled  again. 

“No,  Jerry,  no!”  said  the  messenger,  harping  on  one  theme  as  he  rode. 
“ It  wouldn’t  do  for  you,  Jerry.  Jerry,  you  honest  tradesman,  it  wouldn’t  suit  your 
line  of  business  ! Recalled — ! Bust  me  if  I don’t  think  he’d  been  a drinking !” 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  degree  that  he  was  fain,  several  times, 
to  take  off  his  hat  to  scratch  his  head.  Except  on  the  crown,  which  was  raggedly 
bald,  he  had  stiff,  black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and  growing  down  hill 
almost  to  his  broad,  blunt  nose.  It  was  so  like  smith’s  work,  so  much  more  like 
the  top  of  a strongly  spiked  wall  than  a head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of  players  at 
leap-frog  might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most  dangerous  man  in  the  world  to  go 
over. 

While  he  trotted  back  with  the  message  he  was  to  deliver  to  the  night  watch- 
man in  his  box  at  the  door  of  Tellson’s  Bank,  by  Temple  Bar,  who  was  to  deliver 
it  to  greater  authorities  within,  the  shadows  of  the  night  took  such  shapes  to  him 
as  arose  out  of  the  message,  and  took  such  shapes  to  the  mare  as  arose  out  of  her 
private  topics  of  uneasiness.  They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  for  she  shied  at  every 
shadow  on  the  road. 

What  time,  the  mail-coach  lumbered,  jolted,  rattled,  and  bumped  upon  its 
tedious  way,  with  its  three  fellow-inscrutables  inside.  To  whom,  likewise,  the 
shadows  of  the  night  revealed  themselves,  in  the  forms  their  dozing  eyes  and  wan- 
dering thoughts  suggested. 

Tellson’s  Bank  had  a run  upon  it  in  the  mail.  As  the  bank  passenger — with  an 
arm  drawn  through  the  leathern  strap,  which  did  what  1 ly  in  it  to  keep  him  from 
pounding  against  the  next  passenger,  and  driving  him  into  Iris  corner,  whenever 
the  coach  got  a special  jolt — nodded  in  his  place,  with  half-shut  eyes,  the  little 
coach-windows,  and  the  coach-lamp  dimly  gleaming  through  them,  and  the  bulky 
bundle  of  opposite  passenger,  became  the  bank,  and  did  a great  stroke  of  business. 
The  rattle  of  the  harness  was  the  chink  of  money,  and  more  drafts  were  honoured 
in  five  minutes  than  even  Tcllson’s,  with  all  its  foreign  and  home  connexion,  ever 
paid  in  thrice  the  time.  Then  the  strong-rooms  underground,  at  Tellson’s, 
with  such  of  their  valuable  stores  and  secrets  as  were  known  to  the  passenger 
(and  it  was  not  a little  that  he  knew  about  them),  opened  before  him,  and 
he  went  in  among  them  with  the  great  keys  and  the  feebly-burning  candle, 
and  found  them  safe,  and  strong,  and  sound,  and  still,  just  as  he  had  last  seen 
them. 

But,  though  the  bank  was  almost  always  with  him,  and  though  the  coach  (in  a 
confused  way,  like  the  presence  of  pain  under  an  opiate)  was  always  with  him, 
there  was  another  current  of  impression  that  never  ceased  to  run,  all  through  the 
night.  He  was  on  his  way  to  dig  some  one  out  of  a grave. 

Now,  which  of  the  multitude  of  faces  that  showed  themselves  before  him  was 
the  true  face  of  the  buried  person,  the  shadows  of  the  night  did  not  indicate  ; but 
they  were  all  the  faces  of  a man  of  five-and-forty  by  years,  and  they  differed  prin- 
cipally in  the  passions  they  expressed,  and  in  the  ghastliness  of  their  worn  and 
wasted  state.  Pride,  contempt,  defiance,  stubbornness,  submission,  lamentation, 
succeeded  one  another ; so  did  varieties  of  sunken  cheek,  cadaverous  colour, 
emaciated  hands  and  figures.  But  the  face  was  in  the  main  one  face,  and  every 


8 A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

head  was  prematurely  white.  A hundred  times  the  dozing  passenger  inquired  ol 
this  spectre : 

“ Buried  how  long  ?” 

The  answer  was  always  the  same  : “Almost  eighteen  yean." 

“ You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?” 

“ Long  ago.’* 

“You  know  that  you  are  recalled  to  life  ?” 

“They  tell  me  so.” 

“ I hope  you  care  to  live  ? ” 

“ I can’t  say.” 

“ Shall  I show  her  to  you  ? Will  you  come  and  see  her  ?” 

The  answers  to  this  question  were  various  and  contradictory.  Sometimes  the 
broken  reply  was,  “ Wait ! It  would  kill  me  if  I saw  her  too  soon.”  Sometimes, 
it  wras  given  in  a tender  rain  of  tears,  and  then  it  was  “ Take  me  to  her.”  Some- 
times it  was  staring  and  bewildered,  and  then  it  was,  “ I don’t  know  her.  I don’t 
understand.” 

After  such  imaginary  discourse,  the  passenger  in  his  fancy  would  dig,  and  dig, 
dig — now,  with  a spade,  now  with  a great  key,  now  with  his  hands — to  dig  this 
wretched  creature  out.  Got  out  at  last,  with  earth  hanging  about  his  face  and  hair, 
he  would  suddenly  fall  away  to  dust.  The  passenger  would  then  start  to  himself, 
and  lower  the  window,  to  get  the  reality  of  mist  and  rain  on  his  cheek. 

Yet  even  when  his  eyes  were  opened  on  the  mist  and  rain,  on  the  moving  patch 
of  light  from  the  lamps,  and  the  hedge  at  the  roadside  retreating  by  jerks,  the  night 
shadows  outside  the  coach  would  fall  into  the  train  of  the  night  shadows  within. 
The  real  Banking-house  by  Temple  Bar,  the  real  business  of  the  past  day,  the  real 
strong  rooms,  the  real  express  sent  after  him,  and  the  real  message  returned,  would 
all  be  there.  Out  of  the  midst  of  them,  the  ghostly  face  would  rise,  and  he  would 
accost  it  again. 

“ Buried  how  long  ?” 

“ Almost  eighteen  years.” 

“ I hope  you  care  to  live  ?" 

“ I can’t  say.” 

Dig — dig — dig — until  an  impatient  movement  from  one  of  the  two  passengers 
would  admonish  him  to  pull  up  the  window,  draw  his  arm  securely  through  the 
leathern  strap,  and  speculate  upon  the  two  slumbering  forms,  until  his  mind  lost 
its  hold  of  them,  and  they  again  slid  away  into  the  bank  and  the  grave. 

“ Buried  how  long  ?” 

“ Almost  eighteen  years.” 

“ You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out  ?” 

“ Long  ago.” 

The  words  were  still  in  his  hearing  as  just  spoken — distinctly  in  his  hearing  a» 
ever  spoken  words  had  been  in  his  life — when  the  weary  passenger  started  to  the 
consciousness  of  daylight,  and  found  that  the  shadows  of  the  night  were  gone. 

He  lowered  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  rising  sun.  There  was  a ridge 
of  ploughed  land,  with  a plough  upon  it  where  it  had  been  left  last  night  when  the 
horses  were  unyoked  ; beyond,  a quiet  coppice-wood,  in  which  many  leaves  ol 
burning  red  and  golden  yellow  still  remained  upon  the  trees.  Though  the  earth 
was  cold  and  wet,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun  rose  bright,  placid,  and  beautiful. 

“ Eighteen  years  !”  said  the  passenger,  looking  at  the  sun.  “ Gracious  Creatoi 
of  day  T To  be  buried  alive  for  eighteen  years  1” 


The  gentleman  in  brown . 


9 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PREPARATION. 

When  the  mail  got  successfully  to  Dover,  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  the  head 
drawer  at  the  Royal  George  Hotel  opened  the  coach-door  as  his  custom  was.  He 
did  it  with  some  flourish  of  ceremony,  for  a mail  journey  from  London  in  winter  * 
was  an  achievement  to  congratulate  an  adventurous  traveller  upon. 

By  that  time,  there  was  only  one  adventurous  traveller  left  to  be  congratulated  : 
for  the  two  others  had  been  set  down  at  their  respective  roadside  destinations. 
The  mildewy  inside  of  the  coach,  with  its  damp  and  dirty  straw,  its  disagreeable 
smell,  and  its  obscurity,  was  rather  like  a larger  dog-kennel.  Mr  Lorry,  the  pas- 
senger, shaking  himself  out  of  it  in  chains  of  straw,  a tangle  of  shaggy  wrapper, 
flapping  hat,  and  muddy  legs,  was  rather  like  a larger  sort  of  dog. 

“ There  will  be  a packet  to  Calais,  to-morrow,  drawer  ?” 

“Yes,  sir,  if  the  weather  holds  and  the  wind  sets  tolerable  fair.  The  tide  will 
serve  pretty  nicely  at  about  two  in  the  afternoon,  sir.  Bed,  sir  ?” 

“ I shall  not  go  to  bed  till  night ; but  I want  a bedroom,  and  a barber.,, 

“ And  then  breakfast,  sir  ? Yes,  sir.  That  way,  sir,  if  you  please.  Show  Con- 
cord ! Gentleman’s  valise  and  hot  water  to  Concord.  Pull  off  gentleman’s  boots 
in  Concord.  (You  will  find  a fine  sea-coal  fire,  sir.)  Fetch  barber  to  Concord. 
Stir  about  there,  now,  for  Concord  !” 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  assigned  to  a passenger  by  the  mail, 
and  passengers  by  the  mail  being  always  heavily  wrapped  up  from  head  to  foot, 
the  room  had  the  odd  interest  for  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  George,  that 
although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to  go  into  it,  all  kinds  and  varieties  of  men 
came  out  of  it.  Consequently,  another  drawer,  and  two  porters,  and  several  maids 
and  the  landlady,  were  all  loitering  by  accident  at  various  points  of  the  road 
between  the  Concord  and  the  coffee-room,  when  a gentleman  of  sixty,  formally 
dressed  in  a brown  suit  of  clothes,  pretty  well  worn,  but  very  well  kept,  with  large 
square  cuffs  and  large  flaps  to  the  pockets,  passed  along  on  his  way  to  his 
breakfast. 

The  coffee-room  had  no  other  occupant,  that  forenoon,  than  the  gentleman  in 
brown.  His  breakfast-table  was  drawn  before  the  fire,  and  as  he  sat,  with  its 
light  shining  on  him,  waiting  for  the  meal,  he  sat  so  still,  that  he  might  have  been 
sitting  for  his  portrait. 

Very  orderly  and  methodical  he  looked,  with  a hand  on  each  knee,  and  a loud 
watch  ticking  a sonorous  sermon  under  his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted 
its  gravity  and  longevity  against  the  levity  and  evanescence  of  the  brisk  fire.  He 
had  a good  leg,  and  was  a little  vain  of  it,  for  his  brown  stockings  fitted  sleek  and 
close,  and  were  of  a fine  texture  ; his  shoes  and  buckles,  too,  though  plain,  were 
trim.  He  wore  an  odd  little  sleek  crisp  flaxen  wig,  setting  very  close  to  his  head  : 
which  wig,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  made  of  hair,  but  which  looked  far  more  as 
though  it  were  spun  from  filaments  of  silk  or  glass.  His  linen,  though  not  of  a 
fineness  in  accordance  with  his  stockings,  was  as  white  as  the  tops  of  the  waves 
that  broke  upon  the  neighbouring  beach,  or  the  specks  of  sail  that  glinted  in  the 
sunlight  far  at  sea.  A face  habitually  suppressed  and  quieted,  was  still  lighted  up 
under  the  quaint  wig  by  a pair  of  moist  bright  eyes  that  it  must  have  cost  their 
owner,  in  years  gone  by,  some  pains  to  drill  to  the  composed  and  reserved  expres- 
sion of  Tellson’s  Bank.  He  had  a healthy  colour  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  face,  though 
lined,  bore  few  traces  of  anxiety.  But,  perhaps  the  confidential  bachelor  clerks  ut 


10 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

Tellson’s  Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the  cares  of  other  people ; and  per- 
haps second-hand  cares,  like  second-hand  clothes,  come  easily  off  and  on. 

Completing  his  resemblance  to  a man  who  was  sitting  for  his  portrait,  Mr.  Lorry 
dropped  off  to  sleep.  The  arrival  of  his  breakfast  roused  him,  and  he  said  to  the 
drawer,  as  he  moved  his  chair  to  it : 

“ I wish  accommodation  prepared  for  a young  lady  who  may  come  here  at  any 
tune  to-day.  She  may  ask  for  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  or  she  may  only  ask  for  a gentle- 
man from  Tellson’s  Bank.  Please  to  let  me  know.” 

“ Yes,  sir.  Tellson’s  Bank  in  London,  sir  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Yes,  sir.  We  have  oftentimes  the  honour  to  entertain  your  gentlemen  in  their 
travelling  backwards  and  forwards  betwixt  London  and  Paris,  sir.  A vast  deal  of 
travelling,  sir,  in  Tellson  and  Company’s  House.” 

“Yes.  We  are  quite  a French  House,  as  well  as  an  English  one.” 

“ Yes,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  such  travelling  yourself,  I think,  sir  ?” 
“Not  of  late  years.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  we — since  I — came  last  from 
France.” 

“Indeed,  sir?  That  was  before  my  time  here,  sir.  Before  our  people’s  time 
here,  sir.  The  George  was  in  other  hands  at  that  time,  sir.” 

“ I believe  so.” 

“ But  I would  hold  a pretty  wager,  sir,  that  a House  like  Tellson  and  Company 
was  flourishing,  a matter  of  fifty,  not  to  -peak  of  fifteen  years  ago  ?” 

“You  might  treble  that,  and  say  a hundred  and  fifty,  yet  not  be  far  from  the 
truth.” 

“ Indeed,  sir  !” 

Rounding  his  mouth  and  both  his  eyes,  as  he  stepped  backward  from  the  table, 
the  waiter  shifted  his  napkin  from  his  right  arm  to  his  left,  dropped  into  a comfort- 
able attitude,  and  stood  surveying  the  guest  while  he  ate  and  drank,  as  from  an  obser- 
vatory or  watch-tower.  According  to  the  immemorial  usage  of  waiters  in  all  ages. 

When  Mr.  Lorry  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  went  out  for  a stroll  on  the 
beach.  The  little  narrow,  crooked  town  of  Dover  hid  itself  away  from  the  beach, 
and  ran  its  head  into  the  chalk  cliffs,  like  a marine  ostrich.  The  beach  was  a 
desert  of  heaps  of  sea  and  stones  tumbling  wildly  about,  and  the  sea  did  what  it 
liked,  and  what  it  liked  was  destruction.  It  thundered  at  the  town,  and  thundered 
at  the  cliffs,  and  brought  the  coast  down,  madly.  The  air  among  the  houses  was 
of  so  strong  a piscatory  flavour  that  one  might  have  supposed  sick  fish  went  up  to 
be  dipped  in  it,  as  sick  people  went  down  to  be  dipped  in  the  sea.  A little  fishing 
was  done  in  the  port,  and  a quantity  of  strolling  about  by  night,  and  looking  sea- 
ward : particularly  at  those  times  when  the  tide  made,  and  was  near  flood.  Small 
tradesmen,  who  did  no  business  whatever,  sometimes  unaccountably  realised  large 
fortunes,  and  it  was  remarkable  that  nobody  in  the  neighbourhood  could  endure  a 
lamplighter. 

As  the  day  declined  into  the  afternoon,  and  the  air,  which  had  been  at  intervals 
clear  enough  to  allow  the  French  coast  to  be  seen,  became  again  charged  with 
mist  and  vapour,  Mr.  Lorry’s  thoughts  seemed  to  cloud  too.  When  it  was  dark, 
and  he  sat  before  the  coffee-room  fire,  awaiting  his  dinner  as  he  had  awaited  his 
breakfast,  his  mind  was  busily  digging,  digging,  digging,  in  the  live  red  coals. 

A bottle  of  good  claret  after  dinner  does  a digger  in  the  red  coals  no  harm, 
otherwise  than  as  it  has  a tendency  to  throw  him  out  of  work.  Mr.  Lorry  had 
Deen  idle  a long  time,  and  had  just  poured  out  his  last  glassful  of  wine  with  as 
:omplete  an  appearance  of  satisfaction  as  is  ever  to  be  found  in  an  elderly  gentle- 
man of  a fresh  complexion  who  has  got  to  the  end  of  a bottle,  when  a rattling  of 
udieeK  came  up  the  narrow  street,  and  rumbled  into  the  inn-yard. 


Miss  Maneite. 


1 1 


He  set  down  his  glass  untouched.  “ This  is  Mam’selle  ! ” said  he. 

In  a veiy  few  minutes  the  waiter  came  in  to  announce  that  Miss  Manette  had 
arrived  from  London,  and  would  be  happy  to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson’s. 

“ So  soon  ? ” 

Miss  Manette  had  taken  some  refreshment  on  the  road,  and  required  none  then, 
and  was  extremely  anxious  to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson’s  immediately,  if  it 
suited  his  pleasure  and  convenience. 

The  gentleman  from  Tellson’s  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  empty  his  glass  with 
an  air  of  stolid  desperation,  settle  his  odd  little  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears,  and  follow 
the  waiter  to  Miss  Manette’s  apartment.  It  was  a large,  dark  room,  furnished  in 
a funereal  manner  with  black  horsehair,  and  loaded  with  heavy  dark  tables.  These 
had  been  oiled  and  oiled,  until  the  two  tall  candles  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  were  gloomily  reflected  on  every  leaf ; as  if  they  were  buried,  in  deep 
graves  of  black  mahogany,  and  no  light  to  speak  of  could  be  expected  from  them 
until  they  were  dug  out. 

The  obscurity  was  so  difficult  to  penetrate  that  Mr.  Lorry,  picking  his  way  over 
the  well-worn  Turkey  carpet,  supposed  Miss  Manette  to  be,  for  the  moment,  in 
some  adjacent  room,  until,  having  got  past  the  two  tall  candles,  he  saw  standing 
to  receive  him  b)  the  table  between  them  and  the  fire,  a young  lady  of  not  more 
than  seventeen,  in  a riding-cloak,  and  still  holding  her  straw  travelling-hat  by  its 
ribbon  in  her  hand.  As  his  eyes  rested  on  a short,  slight,  pretty  figure,  a quantity 
of  golden  hair,  a pair  of  blue  eyes  that  met  his  own  with  an  inquiring  look,  and  a 
forehead  with  a singular  capacity  (remembering  how  young  and  smooth  it  was),  of 
lifting  and  knitting  itself  into  an  expression  that  was  not  quite  one  of  perplexity, 
or  wonder,  or  alarm,  or  merely  of  a bright  fixed  attention,  though  it  included  all 
the  four  expressions — as  his  eyes  rested  on  these  things,  a sudden  vivid  likeness 
passed  before  him,  of  a child  whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across 
that  veiy  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail  drifted  heavily  and  the  sea  ran 
high.  The  likeness  passed  away,  like  a breath  along  the  surface  of  the  gaunt  pier- 
glass  behind  her,  on  the  frame  of  which,  a hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids, 
several  headless  and  all  cripples,  were  offering  black  baskets  of  Dead  Sea  fruit  to  black 
divinities  of  the  feminine  gender — and  he  made  his  formal  bow  to  Miss  Manette. 

“ Pray  take  a seat,  sir.”  In  a very  clear  and  pleasant  young  voice  ; a little  foreign 
in  its  accent,  but  a very  little  indeed. 

“I  kiss  your  hand,  miss,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the  manners  of  an  earlier  date, 
as  he  made  his  formal  bow  again,  and  took  his  seat. 

“ I received  a letter  from  the  Bank,  sir,  yesterday,  informing  me  that  some  ir- 
telligence — or  discovery ” 

“ The  word  is  not  material,  miss  ; either  word  will  do.” 

“ — respecting  the  small  property  of  my  poor  father,  whom  I never  saw — so 
long  dead ” 

Mr.  Lorry  moved  in  his  chair,  and  cast  a troubled  look  towards  the  hospital 
procession  of  negro  cupids.  As  if  they  had  any  help  for  anybody  in  their  absurd 
baskets ! 

“ — rendered  it  necessary  that  I should  go  to  Paris,  there  to  communicate  with 
a gentleman  of  the  Bank,  so  good  as  to  be  despatched  to  Paris  for  the  purpose.” 

“ Myself.” 

“ As  I was  prepared  to  hear,  sir.” 

She  curtseyed  te  him  (young  ladies  made  curtseys  in  those  days),  with  a pretty 
desire  to  convey  to  him  that  she  felt  how  much  older  and  wiser  he  was  than  she. 
He  made  her  another  bow. 

“ I replied  to  the  Bank,  sir,  that  as  it  was  considered  necessary,  by  those  who 
know,  and  who  are  so  kind  as  t)  advise  me,  that  I should  go  to  France,  and  that 


li 


A Tale  of  Two  C itie> 


as  I am  an  orphan  and  have  no  friend  who  could  go  with  me,  I should  esteem  it 
highly  if  I might  be  permitted  to  place  myself,  during  the  journey,  under  that 
worthy  gentleman’s  protection.  The  gentleman  had  left  London,  but  I think  a 
messenger  was  sent  after  him  to  beg  the  favour  of  his  waiting  for  me  here.” 

“ I was  happy,”  said  Mr.  Loriy,  “ to  be  entrusted  with  the  charge.  I shall  be 
more  happy  to  execute  it.” 

“Sir,  I thank  you  indeed.  I thank  you  very  gratefully.  It  was  told  me  by 
the  Bank  that  the  gentleman  would  explain  to  me  the  details  of  the  business,  and 
that  I must  prepare  myself  to  find  them  of  a surprising  nature.  I have  done  my 
best  to  prepare  myself,  and  I naturally  have  a strong  and  eager  interest  to  know 
what  they  are.” 

“ Naturally,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Yes — I ” 

After  a pause,  he  added,  again  settling  the  crisp  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears : 

“ It  is  very  difficult  to  begin.” 

He  did  not  begin,  but,  in  his  indecision,  met  her  glance.  The  young  forehead 
lifted  itself  into  that  singular  expression — but  it  was  pretty  and  characteristic,  be- 
sides being  singular — and  she  raised  her  hand,  as  if  with  an  involuntary  action  she 
caught  at,  or  stayed  some  passing  shadow. 

“ Are  you  quite  a stranger  to  me,  sir  ?” 

“ Am  I not  ?”  Mr.  Lorry  opened  his  hands,  and  extended  them  outwards 
with  an  argumentative  smile. 

Between  the  eyebrows  and  just  over  the  little  feminine  nose,  the  line  of  which 
was  as  delicate  and  fine  as  it  was  possible  to  be,  the  expression  deepened  itself  as  she 
took  her  seat  thoughtfully  in  the  chair  by  which  she  had  hitherto  remained  standing. 
He  watched  her  as  she  mused,  and  the  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  again,  went  on : 
“ In  your  adopted  country,  I presume,  I cannot  do  better  than  address  you  as  a 
young  English  lady,  Miss  Manette  ?” 

“If  you  please,  sir.” 

“ Miss  Manette,  I am  a man  of  business.  I have  a business  charge  to  acquit 
myself  of.  In  your  reception  of  it,  don’t  heed  me  any  more  than  if  I was  a speak- 
ing machine — truly,  I am  not  much  else.  I will,  with  your  leave,  relate  to  you, 
miss,  the  stoiy  of  one  of  our  customers.” 

“ Story  !” 

He  seemed  wilfully  to  mistake  the  word  she  had  repeated,  when  he  added,  in  a 
hurry,  “Yes,  customers  ; in  the  banking  business  we  usually  call  our  connexion 
our  customers.  He  was  a French  gentleman;  a scientific  gentleman;  a man  of 
great  acquirements — a Doctor.” 

“ Not  of  Beauvais  ?” 

“ Why,  yes,  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette,  your  father,  the  gentleman 
was  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette,  your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of 
repute  in  Paris.  I had  the  honour  of  knowing  him  there.  Our  relations  were 
business  relations,  but  confidential.  I was  at  that  time  in  our  French  House,  and 
had  been — oh  ! twenty  years.” 

“ At  that  time — I may  ask,  at  what  time,  sir  ?’ 

“I  speak,  miss,  of  twenty  years  ago.  He  married — an  English  lady— and  I 
was  one  of  the  trustees.  His  affairs,  like  the  affairs  of  many  other  French  gentle- 
men and  French  families,  were  entirely  in  Tellson’s  hands.  In  a similar  way  I am, 
or  I have  been,  trustee  of  one  kind  or  other  for  scores  of  our  customers.  These  are 
mere  business  relations,  miss ; there  is  no  friendship  in  them,  no  particular  in- 
terest, nothing  like  sentiment.  I have  passed  from  one  to  another,  in  the  course  of 
uty  business  life,  just  as  I pass  from  one  of  our  customers  to  another  in  the 
course  of  mj  business  day ; in  short,  I have  no  feelings  , I am  a mere  machinet 
To  gn  on ’’ 


Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  s disclosure . 


13 


“ But  this  is  my  father’s  story,  sir;  and  I begin  to  think” — the  curiously 
roughened  forehead  was  very  intent  upon  him — “ that  when  I was  left  an  orphan 
through  my  mother’s  surviving  my  father  only  two  years,  it  was  you  who  brought 
me  to  England.  I am  almost  sure  it  was  you.” 

Mr.  Lorry  took  the  hesitating  little  hand  that  confidingly  advanced  to  take  his, 
and  he  put  it  with  some  ceremony  to  his  lips.  He  then  conducted  the  young  lady 
straightway  to  her  chair  again,  and,  holding  the  chair-back  with  his  left  hand,  and 
using  his  right  by  turns  to  rub  his  chin,  pull  his  wig  at  the  ears,  or  point  what  he 
said,  stood  looking  down  into  her  face  while  she  sat  looking  up  into  his. 

“ Miss  Manette,  it  vju  I.  And  you  will  see  how  truly  I spoke  of  myself  just 
now,  in  saying  I had  no  feelings,  and  that  all  the  relations  I hold  with  my  fellow- 
creatures  are  mere  business  relations,  when  you  reflect  that  I have  never  seen  you 
since.  No  ; you  have  been  the  ward  of  Tellson’s  House  since,  and  I have  been 
busy  with  the  other  business  of  Tellson’s  House  since.  Feelings  ! I have  no  time 
for  them,  no  chance  of  them.  I pass  my  whole  life,  miss,  in  turning  an  immense 
pecuniary  Mangle.” 

After  this  odd  description  of  his  daily  routine  of  employment,  Mr.  Lorry 
flattened  his  flaxen  wig  upon  his  head  with  both  hands  (which  was  most  unneces- 
sary, for  nothing  could  be  flatter  than  its  shining  surface  was  before),  and  resumed 
his  former  attitude. 

“ So  far,  miss  (as  you  have  remarked),  this  is  the  story  of  your  regretted  father. 

Now  comes  the  difference.  If  your  father  had  not  died  when  he  did Don’t 

be  frightened  ! How  you  start !” 

She  did,  indeed,  start.  And  she  caught  his  wrist  with  both  her  hands. 

“Pray,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a soothing  tone,  bringing  his  left  hand  from  the 
back  of  the  chair  to  lay  it  on  the  supplicatory  fingers  that  clasped  him  in  so 
violent  a tremble  : “ pray  control  your  agitation — a matter  of  business.  As  I 
was  saying- ” 

Her  look  so  discomposed  him  that  he  stopped,  wandered,  and  began  anew  : 

“As  I was  saying;  if  Monsieur  Manette  had  not  died;  if  he  had  sudden]) 
and  silently  disappeared  ; if  he  had  been  spirited  away  ; if  it  had  not  been  diffi- 
cult to  guess  to  what  dreadful  place,  though  no  art  could  trace  him  ; if  he  had 
an  enemy  in  some  compatriot  who  could  exercise  a privilege  that  I in  my  own 
time  have  known  the  boldest  people  afraid  to  speak  of  in  a whisper,  across  the 
water  there  ; for  instance,  the  privilege  of  filling  up  blank  forms  for  the  consign- 
ment of  any  one  to  the  oblivion  of  a prison  for  any  length  of  time  ; if  his  wife  had 
implored  the  king,  the  queen,  the  court,  the  clergy,  for  any  tidings  of  him,  and  all 
quite  in  vain ; — then  the  history  of  your  father  would  have  been  the  history'  of 
this  unfortunate  gentleman,  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais.” 

“ I entreat  you  to  tell  me  more,  sir.” 

“ I will.  I am  going  to.  You  can  bear  it  ?” 

“ I can  bear  anything  but  the  uncertainty  you  leave  me  in  at  this  moment.” 

“ You  speak  collectedly,  and  you — are  collected.  That’s  good  !”  (Though  his 
manner  was  less  satisfied  than  his  words.)  “A  matter  of  business.  Regard 
it  as  a matter  of  business — business  that  must  be  done.  Now  if  this  doctor’s  wife, 
though  a lady  of  great  courage  and  spirit,  had  suffered  so  intensely  from  this  cause 
before  her  little  child  was  born ” 

“ The  little  child  was  a daughter,  sir.” 

•*A  daughter.  A — a — matter  of  business — don’t  be  distressed.  Miss,  if  the 
poor  lady  had  suffered  so  intensely  before  her  little  child  was  born,  that  she 
came  to  the  determination  of  sparing  the  poor  child  the  inheritance  of  any  part  of 
the  agony  she  had  known  the  pains  of,  by  rearing  her  in  the  belief  that  her  father 
was  dead No.  don’t  kneei  . In  Heaven’s  name  why  should  you  kneel  to  me ! ” 


*4 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“For  the  truth.  O dear,  good,  compassionate  sir,  for  the  truth  !” 

“ A — a matter  of  business.  You  confuse  me,  and  how  can  I transact  business  il 
1 am  confused  ? Let  us  be  clear-headed.  If  you  could  kindly  mention  now,  for 
instance,  what  nine  times  ninepence  are,  or  how  many  shillings  in  twenty  guineas, 
it  would  be  so  encouraging.  I should  be  so  much  more  at  my  ease  about  your 
state  of  mind.” 

Without  directly  answering  to  this  appeal,  she  sat  so  still  when  he  had  very 
gently  raised  her,  and  the  hands  that  had  not  ceased  to  clasp  his  wrists  were  so 
much  mere  steady  than  they  had  been,  that  she  communicated  some  re-assurance 
to  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

“ That’s  right,  that’s  right.  Courage!  Business!  You  have  business  before 
you ; useful  business.  Miss  Manette,  your  mother  took  this  course  with  you. 
And  when  she  died — 1 believe  broken-hearted — having  never  slackened  her  un- 
availing search  for  your  father,  she  left  you,  at  two  years  old,  to  grow  to  be 
blooming,  beautiful,  and  happy,  without  the  dark  cloud  upon  you  of  living  in 
uncertainty  whether  your  father  soon  wore  his  heart  out  in  prison,  or  wasted  there 
through  many  lingering  years.” 

As  he  said  the  words  he  looked  down,  with  an  admiring  pity,  on  the  flowing 
golden  hair  ; as  if  he  pictured  to  himself  that  it  might  have  been  already  tinged 
with  grey. 

“You  know  that  your  parents  had  no  great  possession,  and  that  what  they  had 
was  secured  to  your  mother  and  to  you.  There  has  been  no  new  discovery,  of 

money,  or  of  any  other  property ; but ” 

He  felt  his  wrist  held  closer,  and  he  stopped.  The  expression  in  the  forehead, 
which  had  so  particularly  attracted  his  notice,  and  which  was  now7  immovable,  had 
deepened  into  one  of  pain  and  horror. 

“ But  he  has  been — been  found.  He  is  alive.  Greatly  changed,  it  is  too  pro- 
bable ; almost  a wreck,  it  is  possible  ; though  we  will  hope  the  best.  Still,  alive. 
Your  father  has  been  taken  to  the  house  of  an  old  servant  in  Paris,  and  we  are 
going  there : I,  to  identify  him  if  I can : you,  to  restore  him  to  life,  love,  duty, 
rest,  comfort.” 

A shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  from  it  through  his.  She  said,  in  a low, 
distinct,  awe-stricken  voice,  as  if  she  were  saying  it  in  a dream, 

“ I am  going  to  see  his  Ghost ! It  will  be  his  Ghost — not  him  !” 

Mr.  Lorry  quietly  chafed  the  hands  that  held  his  arm.  “ There,  there,  there  ! 
See  now,  see  now ! The  best  and  the  w?orst  are  known  to  you,  now.  You  are 
well  on  your  way  to  the  poor  wronged  gentleman,  and,  with  a fair  sea  voyage,  and 
a fair  land  journey,  you  will  be  soon  at  his  dear  side.” 

She  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  sunk  to  a whisper,  “ I have  been  free,  I have 
been  happy,  yet  his  Ghost  has  never  haunted  me  !” 

“ Only  one  thing  more,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  laying  stress  upon  it  as  a wholesome 
means  of  enforcing  her  attention  : “he  has  been  found  under  another  name  ; his 
own,  long  forgotten  or  long  concealed.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless  now  to 
inquire  which  ; worse  than  useless  to  seek  to  know  whether  he  has  been  for  years 
overlooked,  or  always  designedly  held  prisoner.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless 
now  to  make  any  inquiries,  because  it  would  be  dangerous.  Better  not  to  men- 
tion the  subject,  anywhere  or  in  any  way,  and  to  remove  him — for  a while  at  all 
events — out  of  France.  Even  I,  safe  as  an  Englishman,  and  even  Tellson’s, 
important  as  they  are  to  French  credit,  avoid  all  naming  of  the  matter.  I cany 
about  me,  not  a scrap  of  writing  openly  referring  to  it.  This  is  a secret  service 
altogether  My  credentials,  entries,  and  memoranda,  are  all  comprehended  in  the 
one  line,  ‘Recalled  to  Lift which  may  mean  anything.  But  what  is  the  matter! 
^he  doesn’t  notice  a word  ’ Miss  Manette  !” 


The  strong  woman . 


*5 


Perfectly  still  and  silent,  and  not  even  fallen  back  in  her  :hair,  she  sat  under  hu 
nand,  utterly  insensible ; with  her  eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  with  that 
last  expression  looking  as  if  it  were  carved  or  branded  into  her  forehead.  So 
close  was  her  hold  upon  his  arm,  that  he  feared  to  detach  himself  lest  he  should 
hurt  her  ; therefore  he  called  out  loudly  for  assistance  without  moving. 

A wild-looking  woman,  whom  even  in  his  agitation,  Mr.  Lorry  observed  to  be 
all  of  a red  colour,  and  to  have  red  hair,  and  to  be  dressed  in  some  extraordinary 
tight-fitting  fashion,  and  to  have  on  her  head  a most  wonderful  bonnet  like  a 
Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  good  measure  too,  or  a great  Stilton  cheese, 
came  running  into  the  room  in  advance  of  the  inn  servants,  and  soon  settled  the 
question  of  his  detachment  from  the  poor  young  lady,  by  laying  a brawny  hand 
upon  his  chest,  and  sending  him  flying  back  against  the  nearest  wall. 

(“  I really  think  this  must  be  a man !”  was  Mr.  Lorry’s  breathless  reflection, 
simultaneously  with  his  coming  against  the  wall). 

“Why,  look  at  you  all!”  bawled  this  figure,  addressing  the  inn  servants. 
“Why  don’t  you  go  and  fetch  things,  instead  of  standing  there  staring  at  me? 
I am  not  so  much  to  look  at,  am  I ? Why  don’t  you  go  and  fetch  things  ? I’ll 
let  you  know,  if  you  don’t  bring  smelling-salts,  cold  water,  and  vinegar,  quick,  I 
will.” 

There  was  an  immediate  dispersal  for  these  restoratives,  and  she  softly  laid  the 
patient  on  a sofa,  and  tended  her  with  great  skill  and  gentleness : calling  her 
“my  precious!”  and  “my  bird!”  and  spreading  her  golden  hair  aside  over  her 
shoulders  with  great  pride  and  care. 

“ And  you  in  brown  ! ” she  said,  indignantly  turning  to  Mr.  Lorry  ; “ couldn’t 
you  tell  her  what  you  had  to  tell  her,  without  frightening  her  to  death  ? Look  at 
her,  with  her  pretty  pale  face  and  her  cold  hands.  Do  you  call  that  being  a 
Banker  ? ” 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  exceedingly  disconcerted  by  a question  so  hard  to  answer, 
that  he  could  only  look  on,  at  a distance,  with  much  feebler  sympathy  and 
humility,  while  the  strong  woman,  having  banished  the  inn  servants  under  the 
mysterious  penalty  of  “letting  them  know”  something  not  mentioned  if  they 
stayed  there,  staring,  recovered  her  charge  by  a regular  series  of  gradations,  and 
coaxed  her  to  lay  her  drooping  head  upon  her  shoulder. 

“ I hope  she  will  do  well  now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ No  thanks  to  you  in  brown,  if  she  does.  My  darling  pretty  ! ” 

“ I hope,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  after  another  pause  of  feeble  sympathy  anO  humility, 
“ that  you  accompany  Miss  Manette  to  France  ? ” 

“ A likely  thing,  too  ! ” replied  the  strong  woman.  “If  it  was  ever  intended 
that  I should  go  across  salt  water,  do  you  suppose  Providence  would  have  cast  my 
lot  in  an  island  ? ” 

This  being  another  question  hard  to  answer,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  withdrew  to  con- 
sider it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WINE-SHOP. 

A LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken,  in  the  street.  The  accident 
had  happened  in  getting  it  out  of  a cart ; the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a run, 
the  hoops  had  burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  outside  the  door  of  the  wine*’ 
shop,  shattered  like  a walnut-shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended  their  business,  or  their  idleness,  tc 


i6 


A Tale  of  Izvo  Cities . 


run  to  the  spot  and  drink  the  wine.  The  rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street, 
pointing  every  way,  and  designed,  one  might  have  thought,  expressly  to  lame  all 
living  creatures  that  approached  them,  had  dammed  it  into  little  pools ; these 
were  surrounded,  each  by  its  own  jostling  group  or  crowd,  according  to  its  size. 
Some  men  kneeled  down,  made  scoops  of  their  two  hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or 
tried  to  help  women,  who  bent  over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  before  the  wine  had  all 
run  out  between  their  fingers.  Others,  men  and  women,  dipped  in  the  puddles 
with  little  mugs  of  mutilated  earthenware,  or  even  with  handkerchiefs  from  women’s 
heads,  which  were  squeezed  dry  into  infants'  mouths  ; others  made  small  mud- 
embankments,  to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran  ; others,  directed  by  lookers-on  up  at 
high  windows,  darted  here  and  there,  to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that  started  .s 
away  in  new  directions ; others  devoted  themselves  to  the  sodden  and  lee-dyed 
pieces  of  the  cask,  licking,  and  even  champing  the  moister  wine-rotted  fragments 
with  eager  relish.  There  was  no  drainage  to  cariy  off  the  wine,  and  not  only  did 
it  all  get  taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken  up  along  with  it,  that  there  might 
have  been  a scavenger  in  the  street,  if  anybody  acquainted  with  it  could  have 
believed  in  such  a miraculous  presence. 

A shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voices — voices  of  men,  women,  and 
children — resounded  in  the  street  while  this  wine  game  lasted.  There  was  little 
roughness  in  the  sport,  and  much  playfulness.  There  was  a special  companion- 
ship in  it,  an  observable  inclination  on  the  part  of  every  one  to  join  some  other 
one,  which  led,  especially  among  the  luckier  or  lighter-hearted,  to  frolicsome 
embraces,  drinking  of  healths,  shaking  of  hands,  and  even  joining  of  hands  and 
dancing,  a dozen  together.  When  the  wine  was  gone,  and  the  places  where  it  had 
been  most  abundant  were  raked  into  a gridiron-pattern  by  fingers,  these  demon- 
strations ceased,  as  suddenly  as  they  had  broken  out.  The  man  who  had  left  his 
saw  sticking  in  the  firewood  he  was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion  again  ; the  woman 
who  had  left  on  a door-step  the  little  pot  of  hot  ashes,  at  which  she  had  been  try- 
ing to  soften  the  pain  in  her  own  starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in  those  of  her  child, 
returned  to  it ; men  with  bare  arms,  matted  locks,  and  cadaverous  faces,  who  had 
emerged  into  the  winter  light  from  cellars,  moved  away,  to  descend  again  ; and 
a gloom  gathered  on  the  scene  that  appeared  more  natural  to  it  than  sunshine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  stained  the  ground  of  the  narrow  street  in  the 
suburb  of  Saint  Antoine,  in  Paris,  where  it  was  spilled.  It  had  stained  many 
hands,  too,  and  many  faces,  and  many  naked  feet,  and  many  wooden  shoes.  The 
hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the  wood,  left  red  marks  on  the  billets  ; and  the 
forehead  of  the  woman  who  nursed  her  baby,  was  stained  with  the  stain  of  the  old 
rag  she  wound  about  her  head  again.  Those  who  had  been  greedy  with  the  staves 
of  the  cask,  had  acquired  a tigerish  smear  about  the  mouth  ; and  one  tall  joker  so 
besmirched,  his  head  more  out  of  a long  squalid  bag  of  a night-cap  than  in  it, 
scrawled  upon  a wall  with  his  finger  dipped  in  muddy  wine-lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too  would  be  spilled  on  the  street-stones, 
and  when  the  stain  of  it  would  be  red  upon  many  there. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  on  Saint  Antoine,  which  a momentary  gleam 
had  driven  from  his  sacred  countenance,  the  darkness  of  it  was  heavy — cold,  dirt, 
sickness,  ignorance,  and  want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the  saintly  presence — 
nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them ; but,  most  especially  the  last.  Samples  of  a 
people  that  had  undergone  a terrible  grinding  and  re-grinding  in  the  mill,  and  cer- 
tainly not  in  the  fabulous  mill  which  ground  old  people  young,  shivered  at  every 
corner,  passed  in  and  out  at  every  doorway,  looked  from  every  window,  fluttered 
in  every  vestige  of  a garment  that  the  wind  shook.  The  mill  which  had  worked 
them  down,  was  the  mill  that  grinds  young  people  old ; the  children  had  ancient 
face?  and  grave  voices ; and  upon  them,  and  upon  the  grown  faces,  and  ploughed 


Hungry  Saint  Antoine • 


l7 


into  every  fnrrow  of  age  and  coming  up  afresh,  was  the  sign,  Hunger.  It  was 
prevalent  everywhere.  Hunger  was  pushed  out  of  the  tall  houses,  in  the  wretched 
doming  that  hung  upon  poles  and  lines  ; Hunger  was  patched  into  them  with 
sti  aw  and  rag  and  wood  and  paper ; Hunger  was  repeated  in  every  fragment  of  the 
small  modicum  of  firewood  that  the  man  sawed  off ; Hunger  stared  down  from  the 
smokeless  chimneys,  and  started  up  from  the  filthy  street  that  had  no  offal,  among 
its  refuse,  of  anything  to  eat.  Hunger  was  the  inscription  on  the  baker’s  shelves, 
written  in  every  small  loaf  of  his  scanty  stock  of  bad  bread  ; at  the  sausage-shop,  in 
every  dead-dog  preparation  that  was  offered  for  sale.  Hunger  rattled  its  dry  bones 
among  the  roasting  chestnuts  in  the  turned  cylinder;  Hunger  was  shred  into 
atomies  in  every  farthing  porringer  of  husky  chips  of  potato,  fried  with  some  re- 
luctant drops  of  oil. 

Its  abiding  place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to  it.  A narrow  winding  street,  full  of 
offence  and  stench,  with  other  narrow  winding  streets  diverging,  all  peopled  by  rags 
and  nightcaps,  and  all  smelling  of  rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all  visible  things  with  a 
brooding  look  upon  them  that  looked  ill.  In  the  hunted  air  of  the  people  there 
was  yet  some  wild-beast  thought  of  the  possibility  of  turning  at  bay.  Depressed 
and  slinking  though  they  were,  eyes  of  fire  were  not  wanting  among  them  ; nor 
compressed  lips,  white  with  what  they  suppressed  ; nor  foreheads  knitted  into  the 
likeness  of  the  gallows-rope  they  mused  about  enduring,  or  inflicting.  The  trade 
signs  (and  they  were  almost  as  many  as  the  shops)  were,  all,  grim  illustrations  of 
Want.  The  butcher  and  the  porkman  painted  up,  only  the  leanest  scrags  of 
meat ; the  baker,  the  coarsest  of  meagre  loaves.  The  people  rudely  pictured  as 
drinking  in  the  wine-shops,  croaked  over  their  scanty  measures  of  thin  wine  and 
beer,  and  were  gloweringly  confidential  together.  Nothing  was  represented  in  a 
flourishing  condition,  save  tools  and  weapons ; but,  the  cutler’s  knives  and  axes 
were  sharp  and  bright,  the  smith’s  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the  gunmaker’s  stock 
was  murderous.  The  crippling  stones  of  the  pavement,  with  their  many  little 
reservoirs  of  mud  and  water,  had  no  footways,  but  broke  off  abruptly  at  the  doors. 
The  kennel,  to  make  amends,  ran  down  the  middle  of  the  street — when  it  ran  at 
all : which  was  only  after  heavy  rains,  and  then  it  ran,  by  many  eccentric  fits,  into 
the  houses.  Across  the  streets,  at  wide  intervals,  one  clumsy  lamp  was  slung  by 
a rope  and  pulley ; at  night,  when  the  lamplighter  had  let  these  down,  and 
lighted,  and  hoisted  them  again,  a feeble  grove  of  dim  wicks  swung  in  a sickly 
manner  overhead,  as  if  they  were  at  sea.  Indeed  they  were  at  sea,  and  the  ship 
and  crew  were  in  peril  of  tempest. 

For,  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt  scarecrows  of  that  region  should 
have  watched  the  lamplighter,  in  their  idleness  and  hunger,  so  long,  as  to  conceive 
the  idea  of  improving  on  his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by  those  ropes  and 
pulleys,  to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  their  condition.  But,  the  time  was  not  come 
yet;  and  every  wind  that  blew  over  France  shook  the  rags  of  the  scarecrows  in 
vain,  for  the  birds,  fine  of  song  and  feather,  took  no  warning. 

The  wine-shop  was  a comer  shop,  better  than  most  others  in  its  appearance  and 
degree,  and  the  master  of  the  wine-shop  had  stood  outside  it,  in  a yellow  waist- 
coat and  green  breeches,  looking  on  at  the  struggle  for  the  lost  wine.  “ It’s  not 
my  affair,”  said  he,  with  a final  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  “ The  people  from  the 
market  did  it.  Let  them  bring  another.” 

There,  his  eyes  happening  to  catch  the  tall  joker  writing  up  his  joke,  he  called 
to  him  across  the  way  : 

“ Say,  then,  my  Gaspard,  what  do  you  do  there  ? ” 

The  fellow  pointed  to  his  joke  with  immense  significance,  as  is  often  the  way 
with  his  tribe.  It  m'ssed  its  mark,  and  completely  failed,  as  is  often  the  way  with 

his  tribe  too. 


C 


i8 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“What  now  ? Are  you  a subject  for  the  mad  hospital  ? ” said  the  wine-shop 
keeper,  crossing  the  road,  and  obliterating  the  jest  with  a handful  of  mud,  picked 
up  for  the  purpose,  and  smeared  over  it.  “ Why  do  you  write  in  the  public 
streets  ? Is  there — tell  me  thou — is  there  no  other  place  to  write  such  words 
in  ? ” 

In  Its  expostulation  he  dropped  his  cleaner  hand  (perhaps  accidentally,  perhaps 
not)  upon  the  joker’s  heart.  The  joker  rapped  it  with  his  own,  took  a nimble 
spring  upward,  and  came  down  in  a fantastic  dancing  attitude,  with  one  of  his 
stained  shoes  jerked  off  his  foot  into  his  hand,  and  held  out.  A joker  of  an  ex- 
tremely, not  to  say  wolfishly  practical  character,  he  looked,  under  those  circum- 
stances. 

“Put  it  on,  put  it  on,”  said  the  other.  “ Call  wine,  wine  ; and  finish  there.” 
With  that  advice,  he  wiped  his  soiled  hand  upon  the  joker’s  dress,  such  as  it  was 
— quite  deliberately,  as  having  dirtied  the  hand  on  his  account ; and  then  re-crossed 
the  road  and  entered  the  wine-shop. 

This  wine-shop  keeper  was  a bull-necked,  martial-looking  man  of  thirty,  and  he 
should  have  been  of  a hot  temperament,  for,  although  it  was  a bitter  day,  he  wore 
no  coat,  but  carried  one  slung  over  his  shoulder.  His  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up, 
too,  and  his  brown  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows.  Neither  did  he  wear  anything 
more  on  his  head  than  his  own  crisply-curling  short  dark  hair.  He  was  a dark 
man  altogether,  with  good  eyes  and  a good  bold  breadth  between  them.  Good- 
humoured  looking  on  the  whole,  but  implacable-looking,  too  ; evidently  a man  of 
a strong  resolution  and  a set  purpose  ; a man  not  desirable  to  be  met,  rushing 
down  a narrow  pass  with  a gulf  on  either  side,  for  nothing  would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  tie  counter  as  he  came  in. 
Madame  Defarge  was  a stout  woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a watchful  eye 
that  seldom  seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a large  hand  heavily  ringed,  a steady  face, 
strong  features,  and  great  composure  of  manner.  There  was  a character  about 
Madame  Defarge,  from  which  one  might  have  predicated  that  she  did  not  often 
make  mistakes  against  herself  in  any  of  the  reckonings  over  fyhich  she  presided. 
Madame  Defarge  being  sensitive  to  cold,  was  wrapped  in  fur,  and  had  a quantity 
of  bright  shawl  twined  about  her  head,  though  not  to  the  concealment  of  her  large 
ear-rings.  Her  knitting  was  before  her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to  pick  her  teeth 
with  a toothpick.  Thus  engaged,  with  her  right  elbow  supported  by  her  left 
hand,  Madame  Defarge  said  nothing  when  her  lord  came  in,  but  coughed  just  one 
grain  of  cough.  This,  in  combination  with  the  lifting  of  her  darkly  defined  eye- 
brows over  her  toothpick  by  the  breadth  of  a line,  suggested  to  her  husband  that 
he  would  do  well  to  look  round  the  shop  among  the  customers,  for  any  new  cus- 
tomer who  had  dropped  in  while  he  stepped  over  the  way. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  accordingly  rolled  his  eyes  about,  until  they  rested  upon 
an  elderly  gentleman  and  a young  lady,  who  were  seated  in  a comer.  Other  com- 
pany were  there  : two  playing  cards,  two  playing  dominoes,  three  standing  by  the 
counter  lengthening  out  a short  supply  of  wine.  As  he  passed  behind  the  counter, 
he  took  notice  that  the  elderly  gentleman  said  in  a look  tc  the  young  lady,  “ This 
is  our  man.” 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  do  in  that  galley  there  ? ” said  Monsieur  Defarge  to 
himself ; “ I don’t  know  you.” 

But,  he  feigned  not  to  notice  the  two  strangers,  and  fell  into  discourse  with  the 
triumvirate  of  customers  who  were  drinking  at  the  counter. 

“ How  goes  it,  Jacques  ?”  said  one  of  these  three  to  Monsieur  Defarge.  “Is 
a 11  the  spilt  wine  swallowed  ? ” 

“ Every  drop,  Jacques,”  answered  Monsieur  Defarge. 

When  this  interchange  of  Christian  name  was  effected,  Madame  Defarge,  pick 


Monsieur  and  Madame  Defargt. 


ing  her  teeth  with  her  toothpick,  coughed  another  grain  of  ccugh,  and  raised 
her  eyebrows  by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

“It  is  not  often,”  said  the  second  of  the  three,  addressing  Monsieur  Defarge, 
“that  many  of  these  miserable  beasts  know  the  taste  of  wine,  or  of  anything  but 
black  bread  and  death.  Is  it  not  so,  Jacques  ?” 

“ It  is  so,  Jacques,”  Monsieur  Defarge  returned. 

At  this  second  interchange  of  the  Christian  name,  Madame  Defarge,  still  using 
her  toothpick  with  profound  composure,  coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and 
raised  her  eyebrows  by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

The  last  of  the  three  now  said  his  say,  as  he  put  down  his  empty  drinking  vessel 
and  smacked  his  lips. 

“ Ah  ! So  much  the  worse  ! A bitter  taste  it  is  that  such  poor  cattle  always 
have  in  their  mouths,  and  hard  lives  they  live,  Jacques.  Am  I right,  Jacques  ?” 

“ You  are  right,  Jacques,”  was  the  response  of  Monsieur  Defarge. 

This  third  interchange  of  the  Christian  name  was  completed  at  the  moment 
when  Madame  Defarge  put  her  toothpick  by,  kept  her  eyebrows  up,  and  slightly 
rustled  in  her  seat. 

“ Hold  then  ! True  ! ” muttered  her  husband.  “ Gentlemen — my  wife  ! ” 

The  three  customers  pulled  off  their  hats  to  Madame  Defarge,  with  three 
flourishes.  She  acknowledged  their  homage  ,by  bending  her  head,  and  giving 
them  a quick  look.  Then  she  glanced  in  a casual  manner  round  the  wine-shop, 
took  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent  calmness  and  repose  of  spirit,  and  became 
absorbed  in  it. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  her  husband,  who  had  kept  his  bright  eye  observantly  upon 
her,  “ good  day.  The  chamber,  furnished  bachelor-fashion,  that  you  wished  to 
see,  and  were  inquiring  for  when  I stepped  out,  is  on  the  fifth  floor.  The  doorway 
of  the  staircase  gives  on  the  little  court-yard  close  to  the  left  here,”  pointing  with 
his  hand,  “ near  to  the  window  of  my  establishment.  But,  now  that  I remember, 
one  of  you  has  already  been  there,  and  can  show  the  way.  Gentlemen,  adieu  ! ” 

They  paid  for  their  wine,  and  left  the  place.  The  eyes  of  Monsieur  Defarge 
were  studying  his  wife  at  her  knitting  when  the  elderly  gentleman  advanced  from 
his  comer,  and  begged  the  favour  of  a word. 

“Willingly,  sir,”  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  and  quietly  stepped  with  him  to  the 

door. 

Their  conference  was  very  short,  but  very  decided.  Almost  at  the  first  word. 
Monsieur  Defarge  started  and  became  deeply  attentive.  It  had  not  lasted  a 
minute,  when  he  nodded  and  went  out.  The  gentleman  then  beckoned  to  the 
young  lady,  and  they,  too,  went  out.  Madame  Defarge  knitted  with  nimble 
fingers  and  steady  eyebrows,  and  saw  nothing. 

Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  and  Miss  Manette,  emerging  from  the  wine-shop  thus,  joined 
Monsieur  Defarge  in  the  doorway  to  which  he  had  directed  his  other  company  just 
before.  It  opened  from  a stinking  little  black  court-yard,  and  was  the  general 
public  entrance  to  a great  pile  of  houses,  inhabited  by  a great  number  of  people. 
In  the  gloomy  tile-paved  entry  to  the  gloomy  tile-paved  staircase,  Monsieur 
Defarge  bent  down  on  one  knee  to  the  child  of  his  old  master,  and  put  her  hand 
to  his  lips.  It  was  a gentle  action,  but  not  at  all  gently  done  ; a very  remarkable 
transformation  had  come  over  him  in  a few  seconds.  He  had  no  good-humour 
in  his  face,  nor  any  openness  of  aspect  left,  but  had  become  a secret,  angry, 
dangerous  man. 

“ It  is  very  high  ; it  is  a little  difficult.  Better  to  begin  slowly.”  Thus, 
Monsieur  Defarge,  in  a stem  voice,  to  Mr.  Lorry,  as  they  began  ascending 
the  stairs. 

“ Is  he  alone  ?”  the  latter  whispered. 


to  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

“ Alone  ! God  help  him,  who  should  be  with  him  ! ” said  the  other,  in  the  saisu 
low  voice. 

“ Is  he  always  alone,  then  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Of  his  own  desire  ?” 

“ Of  his  own  necessity.  As  he  was,  when  I first  saw  him  after  they  found  me 
and  demanded  to  know  if  I would  take  him,  and,  at  my  peril  be  discreet — as  he 
was  then,  so  he  is  now.” 

“ He  is  greatly  changed  ?” 

“ Changed !” 

The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stopped  to  strike  the  wail  with  his  hand,  and 
mutter  a tremendous  curse.  No  direct  answer  could  have  been  half  so  forcible. 
Mr.  Lorry’s  spirits  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  as  he  and  his  two  companions 
ascended  higher  and  higher. 

Such  a staircase,  with  its  accessories,  in  the  older  and  more  crowded  parts  of 
Paris,  would  be  bad  enough  now  ; but,  at  that  time,  it  was  vile  indeed  to  unaccus- 
tomed and  unhardened  senses.  Every  little  habitation  within  the  great  foul  nest 
of  one  high  building — that  is  to  say,  the  room  or  rooms  within  every  door  that 
opened  on  the  general  staircase — left  its  own  heap  of  refuse  on  its  own  landing, 
besides  flinging  other  refuse  from  its  own  windows.  The  uncontrollable  and 
hopeless  mass  of  decomposition  so  engendered,  would  have  polluted  the  air,  even 
if  poverty  and  deprivation  had  not  loaded  it  with  their  intangible  impurities  ; the 
two  bad  sources  combined  made  it  almost  insupportable.  Through  such  an 
atmosphere,  by  a steep  dark  shaft  of  dirt  and  poison,  the  way  lay.  Yielding  to 
his  own  disturbance  of  mind,  and  to  his  young  companion’s  agitation,  which 
became  greater  every  instant,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  twice  stopped  to  rest.  Each  of 
these  stoppages  was  made  at  a doleful  grating,  by  which  any  languishing  good  airs 
that  were  left  uncorrupted,  seemed  to  escape,  and  all  spoilt  and  sickly  vapours 
seemed  to  crawl  in.  Through  the  rusted  bars,  tastes,  rather  than  glimpses,  were 
caught  of  the  jumbled  neighbourhood  ; and  nothing  within  range,  nearer  or  lower 
than  the  summits  of  the  two  great  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  had  any  promise  on  it 
of  healthy  life  or  wholesome  aspirations. 

At  last,  the  top  of  the  staircase  was  gained,  and  they  stopped  for  the  third  time. 
There  was  yet  an  upper  staircase,  of  a steeper  inclination  and  of  contracted  dimen- 
sions, to  be  ascended,  before  the  garret  story  was  reached.  The  keeper  of  the 
wine-shop,  always  going  a little  in  advance,  and  always  going  on  the  side  which 
Mr.  Lorry  took,  as  though  he  dreaded  to  be  asked  any  question  by  the  young  lady, 
turned  himself  about  here,  and,  carefully  feeling  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat  he 
carried  over  his  shoulder,  took  out  a key. 

“The  door  is  locked  then,  my  friend  ?”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  surprised. 

“ Ay.  Yes,”  was  the  grim  reply  of  Monsieur  Defarge. 

“ You  think  it  necessary  to  keep  the  unfortunate  gentleman  so  retired  ?” 

“ I think  it  necessary  to  turn  the  key.”  Monsieur  Defarge  whispered  it  closer  in 
his  ear,  and  frowned  heavily. 

“Why?” 

“ Why ! Because  he  has  lived  so  long,  locked  up,  that  he  would  be  frightened — • 
rave — tear  himself  to  pieces — die — come  to  I know  not  what  harm — if  his  door 
was  left  open.” 

“Is  it  possible !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ Is  it  possible  !”  repeated  Defarge,  bitterly.  “ Yes,  And  a beautiful  world 
we  live  in,  when  it  is  possible,  and  when  many  other  such  things  are  possible,  and 
Dot  only  possible,  tut  done — done,  see  you! — under  that  sky  theie,  every  day 
Long  Ibe  the  Devil  Let  us  go  on,” 


The  G nr  ret. 


ai 


This  dialogue  had  been  held  in  so  very  low  a whisper,  that  not  a woid  of  it  had 
reached  the  young  lady’s  ears.  But,  by  this  time  she  trembled  under  such  strong 
emotion,  and  her  face  expressed  such  deep  anxiety,  and,  above  all,  such  dread 
and  terror,  that  Mr.  Lorry  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  speak  a word  or  two  of 
reassurance. 

“ Courage,  dear  miss!  Courage!  Business!  The  worst  will  be  over  in  a 
moment ; it  is  but  passing  the  room-door,  and  the  worst  is  over.  Then,  all  the 
good  you  bring  to  him,  all  the  relief,  all  the  happiness  you  bring  to  him,  begin. 
Let  our  good  friend  here,  assist  you  on  that  side.  That’s  well,  friend  Defarge. 
Come,  now.  Business,  business  ! ” 

They  went  up  slowly  and  softly.  The  staircase  was  short,  and  they  were  soon 
at  the  top.  There,  as  it  had  an  abrupt  turn  in  it,  they  came  all  at  once  in  sight 
of  three  men,  whose  heads  were  bent  down  close  together  at  the  side  of  a door,  and 
who  were  intently  looking  into  the  room  to  which  the  door  belonged,  through 
some  chinks  or  holes  in  the  wall.  On  hearing  footsteps  close  at  hand,  these  three 
turned,  and  rose,  and  showed  themselves  to  be  the  three  of  one  name  who  had 
been  drinking  in  the  wine-shop. 

“I  forgot  them  in  the  surprise  of  your  visit,”  explained  Monsieur  Defarge. 
“ Leave  us,  good  boys  ; we  have  business  here.” 

The  three  glided  by,  and  went  silently  down. 

There  appearing  to  be  no  other  door  on  that  floor,  and  the  keeper  of  the  wine- 
shop going  straight  to  this  one  when  they  were  left  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  in 
a whisper,  with  a little  anger  : 

“ Do  you  make  a show  of  Monsieur  Manette  ? ” 

“ I show  him,  in  the  way  you  have  seen,  to  a chosen  few.” 

“ Is  that  well  ?” 

“ I think  it  is  well.” 

“ Who  are  the  few  ? How  do  you  choose  them  ?” 

“ I choose  them  as  real  men,  of  my  name — Jacques  is  my  name — to  whom  the 
sight  is  likely  to  do  good.  Enough  ; you  are  English ; that  is  another  thing. 
Stay  there,  if  you  please,  a little  moment.” 

With  an  admonitory  gesture  to  keep  them  back,  he  stooped,  and  looked  in 
through  the  crevice  in  the  wall.  Soon  raising  his  head  again,  he  struck  twice  or 
thrice  upon  the  door — evidently  with  no  other  object  than  to  make  a noise  there. 
With  the  same  intention,  he  drew  the  key  across  it,  three  or  four  times,  before  he 
put  it  clumsily  into  the  lock,  and  turned  it  as  heavily  as  he  could. 

The  door  slowly  opened  inward  under  his  hand,  and  he  looked  into  the  room 
and  said  something.  A faint  voice  answered  something.  Little  more  than  a single 
syllable  could  have  been  spoken  on  either  side. 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  beckoned  them  to  enter.  Mr.  Lorry 
got  his  arm  securely  round  the  daughter’s  waist,  and  held  her;  for  he  felt  that  she 
was  sinking. 

“A — a — a— business,  business!”  he  urged,  with  a moisture  that  was  not  of 
business  shining  on  his  cheek.  “ Come  in,  come  in  !” 

“ I am  afraid  of  it,”  she  answered,  shuddering. 

“Of  it?  What?” 

“ I mean  of  him.  Of  my  father.” 

Rendered  in  a manner  desperate,  by  her  state  and  by  the  beckoning  of  their 
conductor,  he  drew  over  his  neck  the  arm  that  shook  upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her 
a little,  and  hurried  her  into  the  room.  He  set  her  down  just  within  the  dcv^r,  and 
held  her,  clinging  to  him. 

Defarge  drew  out  the  key,  closed  the  door,  locked  it  on  the  inside,  took  out  tbs 
key  again,  and  held  it  in  his  hand  All  this  he  did,  methodically,  and  with  a* 


ft 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities 


loud  and  harsh  an  accompaniment  of  noise  as  he  could  make.  Finally,  he  walked 
across  the  room  with  a measured  tread  to  where  the  window  was.  He  stopped 
there,  and  faced  round. 

The  garret,  built  to  be  a depository  for  firewood  and  the  like,  was  dim  and  dark : 
for,  the  window  of  dormer  shape,  was  in  truth  a door  in  the  roof,  with  a little 
crane  over  it  for  the  hoisting  up  of  stores  from  the  street : unglazed,  and  closing 
up  the  middle  in  two  pieces,  like  any  other  door  of  French  construction.  To 
exclude  the  cold,  one  half  of  this  door  was  fast  closed,  and  the  other  was  opened 
but  a very  little  way.  Such  a scanty  portion  of  light  was  admitted  through  these 
means,  that  it  was  difficult,  on  first  coming  in,  to  see  anything ; and  long  habit 
alone  could  have  slowly  formed  in  any  one,  the  ability  to  do  any  work  requiring 
nicety  in  such  obscurity.  Yet,  work  of  that  kind  was  being  done  in  the  garret ; 
for,  with  his  back  towards  the  door,  and  his  face  towards  the  window  where  the 
keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stood  looking  at  him,  a white-haired  man  sat  on  a low 
bench,  stooping  forward  and  very  busy,  making  shoes. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SHOEMAKER. 

“Good  day!”  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  looking  down  at  the  white  head  that 
bent  low  over  the  shoemaking. 

It  was  raised  for  a moment,  and  a very  faint  voice  responded  to  the  salutation, 
as  if  it  were  at  a distance  : 

“ Good  day ! ” 

“You  are  still  hard  at  work,  I see  ?” 

After  a long  silence,  the  head  was  lifted  for  another  moment,  and  the  voice 
replied,  “ Yes — I am  working.”  This  time,  a pair  of  haggard  eyes  had  looked  at 
the  questioner,  before  the  face  had  dropped  again. 

The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and  dreadful.  It  was  not  the  faintness 
of  physical  weakness,  though  confinement  and  hard  fare  no  doubt  had  their  part 
in  it.  Its  deplorable  peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness  of  solitude  and 
disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble  echo  of  a sound  made  long  and  long  ago.  So 
entirely  had  it  lost  the  life  and  resonance  of  the  human  voice,  that  it  affected  the 
senses  like  a once  beautiful  colour  faded  away  into  a poor  weak  stain.  So  sunken 
and  suppressed  it  was,  that  it  was  like  a voice  underground.  So  expressive  it  was, 
of  a hopeless  and  lost  creature,  that  a famished  traveller,  wearied  out  by  lonely 
wandering  in  a wilderness,  would  have  remembered  home  and  friends  in  such  a 
tone  before  lying  down  to  die. 

Some  minutes  of  silent  work  ad  passed  r and  the  haggard  eyes  had  looked  up 
again : not  with  any  interest  or  curiosity,  but  with  a dull  mechanical  perception, 
beforehand,  that  the  spot  where  the  only  visitor  they  were  aware  of  had  stood, 
was  not  yet  empty. 

“ I want,”  said  Defarge,  who  had  not  removed  his  gaze  from  the  shoemaker, 
‘ to  let  in  a little  more  light  here.  You  can  bear  a little  more  ? ” 

The  shoemaker  stopped  his  work ; looked  with  a vacant  air  of  listening,  at  the 
floor  on  one  side  of  him ; then  similarly,  at  the  floor  on  the  other  side  of  him ; 
then,  upward  at  the  speaker. 

“ What  did  you  say  ? ” 

“ Yrou  can  b.eai  a little  more  light  ? ” 


The  Shoemaker . 


23 


“ I must  bear  it,  if  you  let  it  in.”  (Laying  the  palest  shadow  of  a stress  upon 
the  second  word.) 

The  opened  half-door  was  opened  a little  further,  and  secured  at  that  angle  for 
the  time.  A broad  ray  of  light  fell  into  the  garret,  and  showed  the  workman  with 
an  unfinished  shoe  upon  his  lap,  pausing  in  his  labour.  His  few  common  tools 
and  various  scraps  of  leather  were  at  his  feet  and  on  his  bench.  He  had  a white 
oeard,  raggedly  cut,  but  not  very  long,  a hollow  face,  and  exceedingly  bright  eyes. 
The  hollowness  and  thinness  of  his  face  would  have  caused  them  to  look  large, 
under  his  yet  dark  eyebrows  and  his  confused  white  hair,  though  they  had  been 
really  otherwise  ; but,  they  were  naturally  large,  and  looked  unnaturally  so.  His 
yellow  rags  of  shirt  lay  open  at  the  throat,  and  showed  his  body  to  be  withered 
and  worn.  He,  and  his  old  canvas  frock,  and  his  loose  stockings,  and  all  his  poor 
tatters  of  clothes,  had,  in  a long  seclusion  from  direct  light  and  air,  faded  down 
to  such  a dull  uniformity  of  parchment-yellow,  that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say 
which  was  which. 

He  had  put  up  a hand  between  his  eyes  and  the  light,  and  the  very  bones  of  it 
seemed  transparent.  So  he  sat,  with  a steadfastly  vacant  gaze,  pausing  in  his 
work.  He  never  looked  at  the  figure  before  him,  without  first  looking  down  on 
this  side  of  himself,  then  on  that,  as  if  he  had  lost  the  habit  of  associating  place 
with  sound ; he  never  spoke,  without  first  wandering  in  this  manner,  and  for- 
getting to  speak. 

“Are  you  going  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ?”  asked  Defarge,  motioning 
to  Mr.  Lorry  to  come  forward. 

“ What  did  you  say  ?” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day  ? ” 

“ I can’t  say  that  I mean  to.  I suppose  so.  I don’t  know.” 

But,  the  question  reminded  him  of  his  work,  and  he  bent  over  it  again. 

Mr.  Lorry  came  silently  forward,  leaving  the  daughter  by  the  door.  When  he 
had  stood,  for  a minute  or  two,  by  the  side  of  Defarge,  the  shoemaker  looked  up. 
He  showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  another  figure,  but  the  unsteady  fingers  of  one  of 
his  hands  strayed  to  his  lips  as  he  looked  at  it  (his  lips  and  his  nails  were  of  the 
same  pale  lead-colour),  and  then  the  hand  dropped  to  his  work,  and  he  once  more 
bent  over  the  shoe.  The  look  and  the  action  had  occupied  but  an  instant. 

“You  have  a visitor,  you  see,”  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

“What  did  you  say  ? ” 

“ Here  is  a visitor.” 

The  shoemaker  looked  up  as  before,  but  without  removing  a hand  from  his 
work. 

“ Come !”  said  Defarge.  “Here  is  monsieur,  who  kno’ws  a well-made  shoe 
when  he  sees  one.  Show  him  that  shoe  you  are  working  at.  Take  it,  monsieur.” 
Mr.  Lorry  took  it  in  his  hand. 

“ Tell  monsieur  what  kind  of  shoe  it  is,  and  the  maker’s  name.” 

There  was  a longer  pause  than  usual,  before  the  shoemaker  replied  : 

“ I forget  what  it  was  you  asked  me.  What  did  you  say  ? ” 

“I  said,  couldn’t  you  describe  the  kind  of  shoe,  for  monsieur’s  information  ? ” 

“ It  is  a lady’s  shoe.  It  is  a young  lady’s  walking-shoe.  It  is  in  the  present 
mode,  I never  saw  the  mode.  I have  had  a pattern  in  my  hand.”  He  glanced 
at  the  shoe  with  some  little  passing  touch  of  pride. 

“ And  the  maker’s  name  ? ” said  Defarge. 

Now  that  he  had  no  work  to  hold,  he  laid  the  knuckles  of  the  right  hand  in  the 
hollow  of  the  left,  and  then  the  knuckles  of  the  left  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  right, 
and  then  passed  a hand  across  his  bearded  chin,  and  so  on  in  regular  changes, 
without  a moment’s  intermission.  The  task  of  recalling  him  horn  the  vacancy  imp 


H 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


which  he  always  sank  when  he  had  spoken,  was  like  recalling  some  very  weak 
person  from  a swoon,  or  endeavouring,  in  the  hope  of  some  disclosure,  to  stay  the 
spirit  of  a fast-dying  man. 

“ Did  you  ask  me  for  my  name  ? ” 

“Assuredly  I did.” 

“ One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.” 

“ Is  that  all  ? ” 

“ One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.” 

With  a weary  sound  that  was  not  a sigh,  nor  a groan,  he  bent  to  work  again, 
*until  the  silence  was  again  broken. 

“You  are  not  a shoemaker  by  trade?”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  steadfastly  at 
him. 

His  haggard  eyes  turned  to  Defarge  as  if  he  would  have  transferred  the  question 
to  him : but  as  no  help  came  from  that  quarter,  they  turned  back  on  the  questioner 
when  they  had  sought  the  ground. 

“ I am  not  a shoemaker  by  trade  ? No,  I was  not  a shoemaker  by  trade.  I 
- — I learnt  it  here.  I taught  myself.  I asked  leave  to ” 

He  lapsed  away,  even  for  minutes,  ringing  those  measured  changes  on  his  hands 
the  whole  time.  His  eyes  came  slowly  back,  at  last,  to  the  face  from  which  they 
had  wandered  ; when  they  rested  on  it,  he  started,  and  resumed,  in  the  manner  of 
a sleeper  that  moment  awake,  reverting  to  a subject  of  last  night. 

‘ * I asked  leave  to  teach  myself,  and  I got  it  with  much  difficulty  after  a long 
while,  and  I have  made  shoes  ever  since.” 

As  he  held  out  his  hand  for  the  shoe  that  had  been  taken  from  him,  Mr.  Lorry 
said,  still  looking  steadfastly  in  his  face  : 

“ Monsieur  Manette,  do  you  remember  nothing  of  me  ? ” 

The  shoe  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  he  sat  looking  fixedly  at  the  questioner. 

“ Monsieur  Manette  ; ” Mr.  Lorry  laid  his  hand  upon  Defarge’s  arm  ; “do  you 
remember  nothing  of  this  man  ? Look  at  him.  Look  at  me.  Is  there  no  old 
banker,  no  old  business,  no  old  servant,  no  old  time,  rising  in  your  mind,  Monsieur 
Manette  ? ” 

As  the  captive  of  many  years  sat  looking  fixedly,  by  turns,  at  Mr.  Lorry  and  at 
Defarge,  some  long  obliterated  marks  of  an  actively  intent  intelligence  in  the 
middle  of  the  forehead,  gradually  forced  themselves  through  the  black  mist  that 
had  fallen  on  him.  They  were  overclouded  again,  they  were  fainter,  they  were 
gone  ; but  they  had  been  there.  And  so  exactly  was  the  expression  repeated  on 
the  fair  young  face  of  her  who  had  crept  along  the  wall  to  a point  where  she  could  see 
him,  and  where  she  now  stood  looking  at  him,  with  hands  which  at  first  had  been 
only  raised  in  frightened  compassion,  if  not  even  to  keep  him  off  and  shut  out  the 
sight  of  him,  but  which  were  now  extending  towards  him,  trembling  with  eagerness 
to  lay  the  spectral  face  upon  her  warm  young  breast,  and  love  it  back  to  life  and 
hope — so  exactly  was  the  expression  repeated  (though  in  stronger  characters)  on 
her  fair  young  face,  that  it  looked  as  though  it  had  passed  like  a moving  light, 
from  him  to  her. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  him  in  its  place.  He  looked  at  the  two,  less  and  less 
attentively,  and  his  eyes  in  gloomy  abstraction  sought  the  ground  and  looked  about 
him  in  the  old  way.  Finally,  with  a deep  long  sigh,  he  took  the  shoe  up,  and 
resumed  his  work. 

“ Have  you  recognised  him,  monsieur  ? ” asked  Defarge  in  a whisper. 

M Yes ; for  a moment.  At  first  I thought  it  quite  hopeless,  but  I have  un- 
questionably seen,  for  a single  moment,  the  face  that  I once  knew  so  well.  Hush* 
let  us  draw  further  back.  Hush  ! ” 

She  had  moved  from  the  wall  of  the  garret,  very  near  to  the  bench  on  which  h« 


Father  and  Child.  25 

sat.  There  was  something  awful  in  his  unconsciousness  of  the  figure  that  could 
have  put  out  its  hand  and  touched  him  as  he  stooped  over  his  labour. 

Not  a word  was  spoken,  not  a sound  was  made.  She  stood,  like  a spirit,  beside 
him,  and  he  bent  over  his  work. 

It  happened,  at  length,  that  he  had  occasion  to  change  the  instrument  in  his 
hand,  for  his  shoemaker’s  knife.  It  lay  on  that  side  of  him  which  was  not  the  side 
on  which  she  stood.  He  had  taken  it  up,  and  was  stooping  to  work  again,  when 
his  eyes  caught  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  He  raised  them,  and  saw  her  face.  The 
two  spectators  started  forward,  but  she  stayed  them  with  a motion  of  her  hand. 
She  had  no  fear  of  his  striking  at  her  with  the  knife,  though  they  had. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a fearful  look,  and  after  a while  his  lips  began  to  form 
some  words,  though  no  sound  proceeded  from  them.  By  degrees,  in  the  pauses 
of  his  quick  and  laboured  breathing,  he  was  heard  to  say ; 

“ What  is  this  ? ” 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she  put  her  two  hands  to  her  lips,  and 
kissed  them  to  him ; then  clasped  them  on  her  breast,  as  if  she  laid  his  ruined  head 
there. 

“ You  are  not  the  gaoler’s  daughter  ? ” 

She  sighed  “ No.” 

“ Who  are  you  ? ” 

Not  yet  trusting  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him. 
He  recoiled,  but  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  A strange  thrill  struck  him 
when  she  did  so,  and  visibly  passed  over  his  frame ; he  laid  the  knife  down  softly, 
as  he  sat  staring  at  her. 

Her  golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  long  curls,  had  been  hurriedly  pushed  aside, 
and  fell  down  over  her  neck.  Advancing  his  hand  by  little  and  little,  he  took  it 
up  and  looked  at  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  action  he  went  astray,  and,  with  another 
deep  sigh,  fell  to  work  at  his  shoemaking. 

But  not  for  long.  Releasing  his  arm,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
After  looking  doubtfully  at  it,  two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really 
there,  he  laid  down  his  work,  put  his  hand  to  his  neck,  and  took  off  a blackened 
string  with  a scrap  of  folded  rag  attached  to  it.  He  opened  this,  carefully,  on  his 
knee,  and  it  contained  a very  little  quantity  of  hair : not  more  than  one  or  two 
long  golden  hairs,  which  he  had,  in  some  old  day,  wound  off  upon  his  finger. 

He  took  her  hair  into  his  hand  again,  and  looked  closely  at  it.  “ It  is  the  same, 
How  can  it  be  ! When  was  it ! How  was  it ! ” 

As  the  concentrating  expression  returned  to  his  forehead,  he  seemed  to  become 
conscious  that  it  was  in  hers  too.  He  turned  her  full  to  the  light,  and  looked  at 
her. 

“ She  had  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  that  night  when  I was  summoned 
out — she  had  a fear  of  my  going,  though  I had  none — and  when  I was  brought  to 
the  North  Tower  they  found  these  upon  my  sleeve.  ‘ You  will  leave  me  them  ? 
They  can  never  help  me  to  escape  in  the  body,  though  they  may  in  the  spirit.* 
Those  were  the  words  I said.  I remember  them  very  well.” 

He  formed  this  speech  with  his  lips  many  times  before  he  could  utter  it.  But 
when  he  did  find  spoken  words  for  it,  they  came  to  him  coherently,  though 
slowly. 

“ How  was  this  ? — Was  it  you  ? ” 

Once  more,  the  two  spectators  started,  as  he  turned  upon  her  with  a frightful 
suddenness.  But  she  sat  perfectly  still  in  his  grasp,  and  only  said,  in  a low 
voice,  “ I entreat  you,  good  gentlemen,  do  not  come  near  us,  do  not  speak,  do  not 
move  ! ” 

“ Hark  ! ” he  exclaimed.  “ Whose  voice  was  that  ? ” 


26 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


His  hands  released  her  as  he  uttered  this  cry,  and  went  up  to  his  white  hair, 
which  they  tore  in  a frenzy.  It  died  out,  as  everything  but  his  shoemaking  did 
die  out  of  him,  and  he  refolded  his  little  packet  and  tried  to  secure  it  in  his  breast; 
but  he  still  looked  at  her,  and  gloomily  shook  his  head. 

‘ No,  no,  no  ; you  are  too  young,  too  blooming.  It  can’t  be.  See  what  the 
prisoner  is.  These  are  not  the  hands  she  knew,  this  is  not  the  face  she  knew,  this 
is  not  a voice  she  ever  heard.  No,  no.  She  was — and  He  was — before  the  slow 
years  of  the  North  Tower — ages  ago.  What  is  your  name,  my  gentle  angel  ? ” 

Hailing  his  softened  tone  and  manner,  his  daughter  fell  upon  her  knees  before 
him,  with  her  appealing  hands  upon  his  breast. 

“ O,  sir,  at  another  time  you  shall  know  my  name,  and  who  my  mother  was, 
and  who  my  father,  and  how  I never  knew  their  hard,  hard  history.  But  I can- 
not tell  you  at  this  time,  and  I cannot  tell  you  here.  All  that  I may  tell  you,  here 
and  now,  is,  that  I pray  to  you  to  touch  me  and  to  bless  me.  Kiss  me,  kiss  me ! 

0 my  dear,  my  dear ! ” 

His  cold  white  head  mingled  with  her  radiant  hair,  which  warmed  and  lighted 
it  as  though  it  were  the  light  of  Freedom  shining  on  him. 

“If  you  hear  in  my  voice — I don’t  know  that  it  is  so,  but  I hope  it  is — if  you 
hear  in  my  voice  any  resemblance  to  a voice  that  once  was  sweet  music  in  your  ears, 
weep  for  it,  weep  for  it ! If  you  touch,  in  touching  my  hair,  anything  that  recalls 
a beloved  head  that  lay  on  your  breast  when  you  were  young  and  free,  weep  for  it, 
weep  for  it ! If,  when  I hint  to  you  of  a Home  that  is  before  us,  where  I wiil  be 
true  to  you  with  all  my  duty  and  with  all  my  faithful  service,  I bring  back  the 
remembrance  of  a Home  long  desolate,  while  your  poor  heart  pined  away,  weep  for 
it,  weep  for  it ! ” 

She  held  him  closer  round  the  neck,  and  rocked  him  on  her  breast  like  a 
child. 

“If,  when  I tell  you,  dearest  dear,  that  your  agony  is  over,  and  that  I have 
come  here  to  take  you  from  it,  and  that  we  go  to  England  to  be  at  peace  and  at 
rest,  I cause  you  to  think  of  your  useful  life  laid  waste,  and  of  our  native  France 
so  wicked  to  you,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it ! And  if,  when  I shall  tell  you 
of  my  name,  and  of  my  father  who  is  living,  and  of  my  mother  who  is 
dead,  you  learn  that  I have  to  kneel  to  my  honoured  father,  and  implore  his 
pardon  for  having  never  for  his  sake  striven  all  day  and  lain  awake  and  wept  all 
night,  because  the  love  of  my  poor  mother  hid  his  torture  from  me,  weep  for  it, 
weep  for  it ! Weep  for  her,  then,  and  for  me ! Good  gentlemen,  thank  God  ! 

1 feel  his  sacred  tears  upon  my  face,  and  his  sobs  strike  against  my  heart.  O,  see ! 
Thank  God  for  us,  thank  God  ! ” 

He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  and  his  face  dropped  on  her  breast : a sight  so 
touching,  yet  so  terrible  in  the  tremendous  wrong  and  suffering  which  had  gone 
before  it,  that  the  two  beholders  covered  their  faces. 

When  the  quiet  of  the  garret  had  been  long  undisturbed,  and  his  heaving 
breast  and  shaken  form  had  long  yielded  to  the  calm  that  must  follow  all  storms 
— emblem  to  humanity,  of  the  rest  and  silence  into  which  the  storm  called  Life 
must  hush  at  last — they  came  forward  to  raise  the  father  and  daughter  from  the 
ground.  He  had  gradually  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  in  a lethargy,  worn 
out.  She  had  nestled  down  with  him,  that  his  head  might  lie  upon  her  arm  ; and 
her  hair  drooping  over  him  curtained  him  from  the  light. 

“If,  without  disturbing  him,”  she  said,  raising  her  hand  to  Mr.  Lorry  as  he 
stooped  over  them,  after  repeated  blowings  of  his  nose,  “all  could  be  arranged 
for  our  leaving  Paris  at  once,  so  that,  from  the  very  door,  he  could  be  taken 
away — •*” 

But,  consider.  Is  he  fit  for  the  journey  ?”  asked  Mr.  Lorry. 


One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  T ozver . 


*7 


“More  fit  for  that,  I think,  than  to  remain  in  this  city,  so  dreadful  to  him.” 

“It  is  true,”  said  Defarge,  who  was  kneeling  to  look  on  and  hear.  “More 
than  that ; Monsieur  Manette  is,  for  all  reasons,  best  out  of  France.  Say,  shall 
I hire  a carriage  and  post-horses  ?” 

“That’s  business,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  resuming  on  the  shortest  notice  his 
methodical  manners  ; “ and  if  business  is  to  be  done,  I had  better  do  it.” 

“ Then  be  so  kind,”  urged  Miss  Manette,  “ as  to  leave  Us  here.  You  see  how 
composed  he  has  become,  and  you  cannot  be  afraid  to  leave  him  with  me  now. 
Why  should  you  be  ? If  you  will  lock  the  door  to  secure  us  from  interruption,  I 
do  not  doubt  that  you  will  find  him,  when  you  come  back,  as  quiet  as  you  leave 
him.  In  any  case,  I will  take  care  of  him  until  you  return,  and  then  we  will 
remove  him  straight.” 

Both  Mr.  Lorry  and  Defarge  were  rather  disinclined  to  this  course,  and  in 
favour  of  one  of  them  remaining.  But,  as  there  were  not  only  carriage  and  horses 
to  be  seen  to,  but  travelling  papers ; and  as  time  pressed,  for  the  day  was  drawing 
to  an  end,  it  came  at  last  to  their  hastily  dividing  the  business  that  was  necessary 
to  be  done,  and  hurrying  away  to  do  it. 

Then,  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  daughter  laid  her  head  down  on  the 
hard  ground  close  at  the  father’s  side,  and  watched  him.  The  darkness  deepened 
and  deepened,  and  they  both  lay  quiet,  until  a light  gleamed  through  the  chinks 
in  the  wall. 

Mr.  Lorry  and  Monsieur  Defarge  had  made  all  ready  for  the  journey,  and  had 
brought  with  them,  besides  travelling  cloaks  and  wrappers,  bread  and  meat,  wine, 
and  hot  coffee.  Monsieur  Defarge  put  this  provender,  and  the  lamp  he  carried, 
on  the  shoemaker’s  bench  (there  was  nothing  else  in  the  garret  but  a pallet  bed), 
ind  he  and  Mr.  Lorry  roused  the  captive,  and  assisted  him  to  his  feet. 

No  human  intelligence  could  have  read  the  mysteries  of  his  mind,  in  the  scared 
blank  wonder  of  his  face.  Whether  he  knew  what  had  happened,  whether  he 
recollected  what  they  had  said  to  him,  whether  he  knew  that  he  was  free,  were 
questions  which  no  sagacity  could  have  solved.  They  tried  speaking  o him ; 
but,  he  was  so  confused,  and  so  very  slow  to  answer,  that  they  took  fright  at  his 
bewilderment,  and  agreed  for  the  time  to  tamper  with  him  no  more.  He  had  a 
wild,  lost  manner  of  occasionally  clasping  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  had  not 
been  seen  in  him  before ; yet,  he  had  some  pleasure  in  the  mere  sound  of  his 
daughter’s  voice,  and  invariably  turned  to  it  when  she  spoke. 

In  the  submissive  way  of  one  long  accustomed  to  obey  under  coercion,  he  ate 
and  drank  what  they  gave  him  to  eat  and  drink,  and  put  on  the  cloak  and  other 
wrappings,  that  they  gave  him  to  wear.  He  readily  responded  to  his  daughter’s 
drawing  her  arm  through  his,  and  took — and  kept — her  hand  in  both  his  own. 

They  began  to  descend ; Monsieur  Defarge  going  first  with  the  iamp,  Mr. 
Lorry  closing  the  little  procession.  They  had  not  traversed  many  steps  of  the 
long  main  staircase  when  he  stopped,  and  stared  at  the  roof  and  round  at  the 
walls. 

“ You  remember  the  place,  my  father  ? You  remember  coming  up  here  ?” 

“ What  did  you  say  ?” 

But,  before  she  could  repeat  the  question,  he  murmured  an  answer  as  if  she 
had  repeated  it. 

“ Remember  ? No,  I don’t  remember.  It  was  so  very  long  ago.” 

That  he  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  his  having  been  brought  from  his  prison 
to  that  house,  was  apparent  to  them.  They  heard  him  mutter,  “ One  Hundred 
and  Five,  North  Tower and  when  he  looked  aDout  him,  it  evidently  was  for 
the  strong  fortress-walls  which  had  long  encompassed  him.  On  their  leaching 
the  court-yard  he  instinctively  altered  his  tread,  as  being  in  expectation  of  a 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


28 


drawbridge ; and  when  there  was  no  drawbridge,  and  he  saw  the  carriage  waiting 
in  the  open  street,  he  dropped  his  daughter’s  hand  and  clasped  his  head  again 
No  crowd  was  about  the  door ; no  people  were  discernible  at  any  of  the  many 
windows  ; not  even  a chance  passer-by  was  in  the  street.  An  unnatural  silence 
and  desertion  reigned  there.  Only  one  soul  was  to  be  seen,  and  that  was  Madame 
Defarge — who  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw  nothing. 

The  prisoner  had  got  into  a coach,  and  his  daughter  had  followed  him,  when 
Mr.  Lorry’s  feet  were  arrested  on  the  step  by  his  asking,  miserably,  for  his  shoe- 
making tools  and  the  unfinished  shoes.  Madame  Defarge  immediately  called  to 
her  husband  that  she  would  get  them,  and  went,  knitting,  out  of  the  lamplight, 
through  the  court-yard.  She  quickly  brought  them  down  and  handed  them 
in  ; — and  immediately  afterwards  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knitting,  and  saw 
nothing. 

Defarge  got  upon  the  box,  and  gave  the  word  “ To  the  Barrier !”  The 
postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and  they  clattered  away  under  the  feeble  over-swinging 
lamps. 

Under  the  over-swinging  lamps — swinging  ever  brighter  in  the  better  streets, 
and  ever  dimmer  in  the  worse — and  by  lighted  shops,  gay  crowds,  illuminated 
coffee-houses,  and  theatre-doors,  to  one  of  the  city  gates.  Soldiers  with  lanterns, 
at  the  guard-house  there.  “ Your  papers,  travellers  !”  “ See  here  then,  Monsieur 
the  Officer,”  said  Defarge,  getting  down,  and  taking  him  gravely  apart,  “ these 
are  the  papers  of  monsieur  inside,  with  the  white  head.  They  were  consigned  to 

me,  with  him,  at  the ” He  dropped  his  voice,  there  was  a flutter  among  the 

military  lanterns,  and  one  of  them  being  handed  into  the  coach  by  an  arm  in 
uniform,  the  eyes  connected  with  the  arm  looked,  not  an  every  day  or  an  every 
night  look,  at  monsieur  with  the  white  head.  “ It  is  well.  Forward  !”  from  the 
uniform.  “ Adieu  !”  from  Defarge.  And  so,  under  a short  grove  of  feebler  and 
feebler  over-swinging  lamps,  out  under  the  great  grove  of  stars. 

Beneath  that  arch  of  unmoved  and  eternal  lights  ; some,  so  remote  from  this 
little  earth  that  the  learned  tell  us  it  is  doubtful  whether  their  rays  have  even  yet 
discovered  it,  as  a point  in  space  where  anything  is  suffered  or  done  : the  shadows 
of  the  night  were  broad  and  black.  All  through  the  cold  and  restless  interval, 
until  dawn,  they  once  more  whispered  in  the  ears  of  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry — sitting 
opposite  the  buried  man  who  had  been  dug  out,  and  wondering  what  subtle 
powers  were  for  ever  lost  to  him,  and  what  were  capable  of  restoration — the  old 
inquiry : 

“ I hope  you  care  to  be  recalled  to  life  ?” 

And  the  old  answer : 
u I can’t  say.” 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 


THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FIVE  YEARS  LATER. 

Tellson’s  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  even  in  the  yeai 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty.  It  was  very  small,  very  dark,  very  ugly, 
very  incommodious.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover,  in  the  moral 
attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House  were  proud  of  its  smallness,  proud  of  its 
darkness,  proud  of  its  ugliness,  proud  of  its  incommodiousness.  They  were  even 
boastful  of  its  eminence  in  those  particulars,  and  were  fired  by  an  express  convic- 
tion that,  if  it  were  less  objectionable,  it  would  be  less  respectable.  This  was  no 
passive  belief,  but  an  active  weapon  which  they  flashed  at  more  convenient  places 
of  business.  Tellson’s  (they  said)  wanted  no  elbow-room,  Tellson’s  wanted  no 
light,  Tellson’s  wanted  no  embellishment.  Noakes  and  Co.’s  might,  or  Snooks 
Brothers’  might ; but  Tellson’s,  thank  Heaven  ! 

Any  one  of  these  partners  would  have  disinherited  his  son  on  the  question  of 
rebuilding  Tellson’s.  In  this  respect  the  House  was  much  on  a par  with  the 
Country  ; which  did  very  often  disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting  improvements 
in  laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been  highly  objectionable,  but  were  only  the 
more  respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellson’s  was  the  triumphant  perfection  of 
inconvenience.  After  bursting  open  a door  of  idiotic  obstinacy  with  a weak  rattle 
in  its  throat,  you  fell  into  Tellson’s  down  two  steps,  and  came  to  your  senses  in  a 
miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little  counters,  where  the  oldest  of  men  made  your 
cheque  shake  as  if  the  wind  rustled  it,  while  they  examined  the  signature  by  the 
dingiest  of  windows,  which  were  always  under  a shower-bath  of  mud  from  Fleet- 
street,  and  which  were  made  the  dingier  by  their  own  iron  bars  proper  and  the 
heavy  shadow  of  Temple  Bar.  If  your  business  necessitated  your  seeing  “the 
House,”  you  were  put  into  a species  of  Condemned  Hold  at  the  back,  where  you 
meditated  on  a misspent  life,  until  the  House  came  with  its  hands  in  its  pockets, 
and  you  could  hardly  blink  at  it  in  the  dismal  twilight.  Your  money  came  out  of, 
or  went  into,  wormy  old  wooden  drawers,  particles  of  which  flew  up  your  nose 
and  down  your  throat  when  they  were  opened  and  shut.  Your  bank-notes  had  a 
musty  odour,  as  if  they  were  fast  decomposing  into  rags  again.  Your  plate  was 
stowed  away  among  the  neighbouring  cesspools,  and  evil  communications  cor- 
rupted its  good  polish  in  a day  or  two.  Your  deeds  got  into  extemporised 


30 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities 


strong-rooms  made  of  kitchens  and  sculleries,  and  fretted  all  the  fat  out  ol  theii 
parchments  into  the  banking-house  air.  Your  lighter  boxes  of  family  papers  went 
up-stairs  into  a Barmecide  room,  that  always  had  a great  dining- table  in  it  and 
never  had  a dinner,  and  where,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty,  the  first  letters  written  to  you  by  your  old  love,  or  by  your  little  children, 
were  but  newly  released  from  the  horror  of  being  ogled  through  the  windows,  by 
the  heads  exposed  on  Temple  Bar  with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  worthy 
of  Abyssinia  or  Ashantee. 

But  indeed,  at  that  time,  putting  to  death  was  a recipe  much  in  vogue  with  all 
trades  and  professions,  and  not  least  of  all  with  Tellson’s.  Death  is  Nature’s 
remedy  for  all  things,  and  why  not  Legislation’s  ? Accordingly,  the  forger  was 
put  to  Death  ; the  utterer  of  a bad  note  was  put  to  Death  ; the  unlawful  opener  of 
a letter  was  put  to  Death  ; the  purloiner  of  forty  shillings  and  sixpence  was  put 
to  Death ; the  holder  of  a horse  at  Tellson’s  door,  who  made  off  with  it,  was  put 
to  Death  ; the  coiner  of  a bad  shilling  was  put  to  Death  ; the  sounders  of  three- 
fourths  of  the  notes  in  the  whole  gamut  of  Crime,  were  put  to  Death.  Not  that 
it  did  the  least  good  in  the  way  of  prevention — it  might  almost  have  been  worth 
remarking  that  the  fact  was  exactly  the  reverse — but,  it  cleared  off  (as  to  this 
world)  the  trouble  of  each  particular  case,  and  left  nothing  else  connected  with  it 
to  be  looked  after.  Thus,  Tellson’s,  in  its  day,  like  greater  places  of  business,  ivs 
contemporaries,  had  taken  so  many  lives,  that,  if  the  heads  laid  low  before  it  had 
been  ranged  on  Temple  Bar  instead  of  being  privately  disposed  of,  they  would 
probably  have  excluded  what  little  light  the  ground  floor  had,  in  a rather  signifi- 
cant manner. 

Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and  hutches  at  Tellson’s,  the  oldest  o* 
men  carried  on  the  business  gravely.  When  they  took  a young  man  into  Tellson’s 
London  house,  they  hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old.  They  kept  him  in  a 
dark  place,  like  a cheese,  until  he  had  the  full  Tellson  flavour  and  blue-mould 
upon  him.  Then  only  was  he  permitted  to  be  seen,  spectacularly  poring  over 
large  books,  and  casting  his  breeches  and  gaiters  into  the  general  weight  of  the 
establishment. 

Outside  Tellson’s — never  by  any  means  in  it,  unless  called  in — was  an  odd-job 
man,  an  occasional  porter  and  messenger,  who  served  as  the  live  sign  of  the  house. 
He  was  never  absent  during  business  hours,  unless  upon  an  errand,  and  then  he 
was  represented  by  his  son : a grisly  urchin  of  twelve,  who  was  his  express 
image.  People  understood  that  Tellson’s,  in  a stately  way,  tolerated  the  odd-job- 
man.  The  house  had  always  tolerated  some  person  in  that  capacity,  and  time 
and  tide  had  drifted  this  person  to  the  post.  His  surname  was  Cruncher,  ar  J 
on  the  youthful  occasion  of  his  renouncing  by  proxy  the  works  of  darkness,  in  the 
easterly  parish  church  of  Hounsditch,  he  had  received  the  added  appellation  of 
Jerry. 

The  scene  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  private  lodging  in  Hanging-sword-alley,  White- 
friars  : the  time,  half-past  seven  of  the  clock  on  a windy  March  morning,  Anno 
Domini  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty.  (Mr.  Cruncher  himself  always  spoke  of 
the  year  of  our  Lord  as  Anna  Dominoes  : apparently  under  the  impression  that 
the  Christian  era  dated  from  the  invention  of  a popular  game,  by  a lady  who  had 
bestowed  her  name  upon  it.) 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  apartments  were  not  in  a savoury  neighbourhood,  and  were  Dut 
two  in  number,  even  if  a closet  with  a single  pane  of  glass  in  it  might  be  counted 
as  one.  But  they  were  very  decently  kept.  Early  as  it  was,  on  the  windy  March 
morning,  the  room  in  which  he  lay  a-bed  was  already  scrubbed  throughout ; and 
between  the  cups  and  saucers  arranged  for  breakfast,  and  the  lumbering  deal 
table,  a very  clean  white  cloth  was  spread. 


Jerry  Cruncher  at  home. 


3* 


Mr.  Cruncher  reposed  under  a patchwork  counterpane,  like  a Harlequin  at 
home.  At  first,  he  slept  heavily,  but,  by  degrees,  began  to  roll  and  surge  in 
bed,  until  he  rose  above  the  surface,  with  his  spiky  hair  looking  as  if  it  must  tear 
the  sheets  to  ribbons.  At  which  juncture,  he  exclaimed,  in  a voice  of  dire 
exasperation  : 

“ Bust  me,  if  she  ain’t  at  it  agin  ! ” 

A woman  of  orderly  and  industrious  appearance  rose  from  her  knees  in  a 
corner,  with  sufficient  haste  and  trepidation  to  show  that  she  was  the  person 
referred  to. 

“ What ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of  bed  for  a boot.  “You’re  at  it 
agin,  are  you  ? ” 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salutation,  he  threw  a boot  at  the 
woman  as  a third.  It  was  a very  muddy  boot,  and  may  introduce  the  odd  circum- 
stance connected  with  Mr.  Cruncher’s  domestic  economy,  that,  whereas  he  often 
came  home  after  banking  hours  with  clean  boots,  he  often  got  up  next  morning  to 
find  the  same  boots  covered  with  clay. 

“ What,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apostrophe  after  missing  his  mark — 
“ what  are  you  up  to,  Aggerawayter  ? ” 

“ I was  only  saying  my  prayers.” 

“ Saying  your  prayers  ! You’re  a nice  woman  ! What  do  you  mean  by  flopping 
yourself  down  and  praying  agin  me?” 

“ I was  not  praying  against  you  ; I was  praying  for  you.” 

“You  weren’t.  And  if  you  were,  I won’t  be  took  the  liberty  with.  Here! 
your  mother ’s  a nice  woman,  young  Jerry,  going  a praying  agin  your  father’s 
prosperity.  You’ve  got  a dutiful  mother,  you  have,  my  son.  You’ve  got  a reli- 
gious mother,  you  have,  my  boy  : going  and  flopping  herself  down,  and  praying 
that  the  bread-and-butter  may  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of  her  only  child.” 

Master  Cruncher  (who  was  in  his  shirt)  took  this  very  ill,  and,  turning  to  his 
mother,  strongly  deprecated  any  praying  away  of  his  personal  board. 

“And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited  female,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with 
unconscious  inconsistency,  “that  the  worth  of  your  prayers  may  be?  Name  the 
price  that  you  put  your  prayers  at ! ” 

“ They  only  come  from  the  heart,  Jerry.  They  are  worth  no  more  than  that.” 

“Worth  no  more  than  that,”  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher.  “They  ain’t  worth 
much,  then.  Whether  or  no,  I won’t  be  prayed  agin,  I tell  you.  I can’t  afford 
it.  I’m  not  a going  to  be  made  unlucky  by  your  sneaking.  If  you  must  go 
flopping  yourself  down,  flop  in  favour  of  your  husband  and  child,  and  not  in  oppo- 
sition to  ’em.  If  I had  had  any  but  a unnat’ral  wife,  and  this  poor  boy  had  had 
any  but  a unnat’ral  mother,  I might  have  made  some  money  last  week  instead  of 
being  counterprayed  and  countermined  and  religiously  circumwented  into  the 
worst  of  luck.  B-u-u-ust  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  all  this  time  had  been 
putting  on  his  clothes,  “if  I ain’t,  what  with  piety  and  one  blowed  thing  and 
another,  been  choused  this  last  week  into  as  bad  luck  as  ever  a poor  devil  of.  a 
honest  tradesman  met  with  ! Young  Jerry,  dress  yourself,  my  boy,  and  while  I 
clean  my  boots  keep  a eye  upon  your  mother  now  and  then,  and  if  you  see  any 
signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a call.  For,  I tell  you,”  here  he  addressed  his 
wife  once  more,  “I  won’t  be  gone  agin,  in  this  manner.  I am  as  rickety  as  a 
hackney-coach,  I’m  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is  strained  to  that  degree 
that  I shouldn’t  know,  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  pain  in  ’em,  which  was  me  and  which 
somebody  else,  yet  I’m  none  the  better  for  it  in  pocket ; and  it’s  my  suspicion  that 
you’ve  been  at  it  from  morning  to  night  to  prevent  me  from  being  the  better  for  it 
in  pocket,  and  I won’t  put  up  with  it,  Aggerawayter,  and  what  do  you  say  now  ! ” 

Growling,  in  adiition,  such  phrases  as  “Ah  ! yes  ! You’re  religious,  too.  You 


3*  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

wouldn’t  put  yourself  in  opposition  to  the  interests  of  your  husband  and  child, 
would  you  ? Not  you  ! ” and  throwing  off  other  sarcastic  sparks  from  the  whirling 
grindstone  of  his  indignation,  Mr.  Cruncher  betook  himself  to  his  boot-cleaning 
and  his  general  preparation  for  business.  In  the  meantime,  his  son,  whose  head 
was  garnished  with  tenderer  spikes,  and  whose  young  eyes  stood  close  by  one 
another,  as  his  father’s  did,  kept  the  required  watch  upon  his  mother.  He  greatly 
disturbed  that  poor  woman  at  intervals,  by  darting  out  of  his  sleeping  closet, 
where  he  made  his  toilet,  with  a suppressed  cry  of  “ You  are  going  to  flop, 
mother. — Halloa,  father!”  and,  after  raising  this  fictitious  alarm,  darting  ia 
again  with  an  undutiful  grin. 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  temper  was  not  at  all  improved  when  he  came  to  his  breakfast. 
He  resented  Mrs.  Cruncher’s  saying  grace  with  particular  animosity. 

“ Now,  Aggerawayter ! What  are  you  up  to  ? At  it  agin  ? ” 

His  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  “ asked  a blessing.” 

“Don’t  do  it ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  about,  as  if  he  rather  expected  to 
see  the  loaf  disappear  under  the  efficacy  of  his  wife’s  petitions.  “ I ain’t  a going 
to  be  blest  out  of  house  and  home.  I won’t  have  my  wittles  blest  off  my  table. 
Keep  still ! ” 

Exceedingly  red-eyed  and  grim,  as  if  he  had  been  up  all  night  at  a party  which 
had  taken  anything  but  a convivial  turn,  Jerry  Cruncher  worried  his  breakfast 
rather  than  ate  it,  growling  over  it  like  any  four-footed  inmate  of  a menagerie. 
Towards  nine  o’clock  he  smoothed  his  ruffled  aspect,  and,  presenting  as  respect- 
able and  business-like  an  exterior  as  he  could  overlay  his  natural  self  with,  issued 
forth  to  the  occupation  of  the  day. 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a trade,  in  spite  of  his  favourite  description  of  him- 
self as  “ a honest  tradesman.”  His  stock  consisted  of  a wooden  stool,  made  out 
of  a broken-backed  chair  cut  down,  which  stool,  young  Jerry,  walking  at  his 
father’s  side,  carried  every  morning  to  beneath  the  banking-house  window  that 
was  nearest  Temple  Bar  : where,  with  the  addition  of  the  first  handful  of  straw 
that  could  be  gleaned  from  any  passing  vehicle  to  keep  the  cold  and  wet  from  the 
odd-job-man’s  feet,  it  formed  the  encampment  for  the  day.  On  this  post  of  his, 
Mr.  Cruncher  was  as  well  known  to  Fleet-street  and  the  Temple,  as  the  Bar  itself, 
— and  was  almost  as  ill-looking. 

Encamped  at  a quarter  before  nine,  in  good  time  to  touch  his  three-cornered 
hat  to  the  oldest  of  men  as  they  passed  in  to  Tellson’s,  Jerry  took  up  his  station 
on  this  windy  March  morning,  with  young  Jerry  standing  by  him,  when  not 
engaged  in  making  forays  through  the  Bar,  to  inflict  bodily  and  mental  injuries 
of  an  acute  description  on  passing  boys  who  were  small  enough  for  his  amiable 
purpose.  Father  and  son,  extremely  like  each  other,  looking  silently  on  at  the 
morning  traffic  in  Fleet-street,  with  their  two  heads  as  near  to  one  another  as  the 
two  eyes  of  each  were,  bore  a considerable  resemblance  to  a pair  of  monkeys. 
The  resemblance  was  not  lessened  by  the  accidental  circumstance,  that  the  mature 
Jerry  bit  and  spat  out  straw,  while  the  twinkling  eyes  of  the  youthful  Jerry  were 
as  restlessly  watchful  of  him  as  of  everything  else  in  Fleet-street. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  regular  indoor  messengers  attached  to  Tellson’s  estab- 
lishment was  put  through  the  door,  and  the  word  was  given : 

“ Porter  wanted  ! ” 

“ Hooray,  father  ! Here’s  an  early  job  to  begin  with  ! ” 

Having  thus  given  his  parent  God  speed,  young  Jerry  seated  himself  on  the 
stool,  entered  on  his  reversionary  interest  in  the  straw  his  father  had  been  chewing, 
and  cogitated. 

“AUways  rusty!  His  fingers  is  al-ways  rusty!”  muttered  young  Jerry. 
•*  re  does  my  father  get  all  that  iron  rust  from  ? He  don’t  get  no  iron  rust  here ! ” 


The  Infallible  Old  Bailey. 


33 


CHAPTER  II. 

A SIGHT. 

“ You  know  the  Old  Bailey  well,  no  doubt  ? ” said  one  of  the  oldest  of  clerks  to 
Jerry  the  messenger. 

“ Ye-es,  sir,”  returned  Jerry,  in  something  of  a dogged  manner.  “I  do  know 
the  Bailey.” 

“ Just  so.  And  you  know  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ I know  Mr.  Lorry,  sir,  much  better  than  I know  the  Bailey.  Much  better, 
said  Jerry,  not  unlike  a reluctant  witness  at  the  establishment  in  question,  “ tha 
I,  as  a honest  tradesman,  wish  to  know  the  Bailey.” 

“ Very  well.  Find  the  door  where  the  witnesses  go  in,  and  show  the  door 
keeper  this  note  for  Mr.  Lorry.  He  will  then  let  you  in.'’ 

“ Into  the  court,  sir  ? ” 

“ Into  the  court.” 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  eyes  seemed  to  get  a little  closer  to  one  another,  and  to  inter- 
change the  inquiry,  “ What  do  you  think  of  this  ? ” 

“ Am  I to  wait  in  the  court,  sir  ? ” he  asked,  as  the  result  of  that  conference. 

“ I am  going  to  tell  you.  The  door-keeper  will  pass  the  note  to  Mr.  Lorry, 
and  do  you  make  any  gesture  that  will  attract  Mr.  Lorry’s  attention,  and  show 
him  where  you  stand.  Then  what  you  have  to  do,  is,  to  remain  there  until  he 
wants  you.” 

“ Is  that  all,  sir  ?” 

“ That’s  all.  He  wishes  to  have  a messenger  at  hand.  This  is  to  tell  him  you 
are  there.” 

As  the  ancient  clerk  deliberately  folded  and  superscribed  the  note,  Mr.  Cruncher, 
after  surveying  him  in  silence  until  he  came  to  the  blotting-paper  stage,  remarked  : 
“ I suppose  they’ll  be  trying  Forgeries  this  morning  ? ” 

“ Treason ! ” 

“ That’s  quartering,”  said  Jerry.  “ Barbarous  ! ” 

“ It  is  the  law,”  remarked  the  ancient  clerk,  turning  his  surprised  spectacles 
upon  him.  “ It  is  the  law.” 

“ It’s  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a man,  I think.  It’s  hard  enough  to  kill  him,  but 
it’s  wery  hard  to  spile  him,  sir.” 

“Not  at  all,”  returned  the  ancient  clerk.  “ Speak  well  of  the  law.  Take  care 
of  your  chest  and  voice,  my  good  friend,  and  leave  the  law  to  take  care  of  itself. 
I give  you  that  advice.” 

“ It’s  the  damp,  sir,  what  settles  on  my  chest  and  voice,”  said  Jerry.  “I  leave 
you  to  judge  what  a damp  way  of  earning  a living  mine  is.” 

“ Well,  well,”  said  the  old  clerk  ; “we  all  have  our  various  ways  of  gaining  a 
livelihood.  Some  of  us  have  damp  ways,  and  some  of  us  have  dry  ways.  Here 
is  the  letter.  Go  along.” 

Jerry  took  the  letter,  and,  remarking  to  himself  with  less  internal  deference  than 
he  made  an  outward  show  of,  “You  are  a lean  old  one,  too,”  made  his  bow, 
informed  his  son,  in  passing,  of  his  destination,  and  went  his  way. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the  street  outside  Newgate  had  not 
obtained  one  infamous  notoriety  that  has  since  attached  to  it.  But,  the  gaol  was 
a vile  place,  in  which  most  kinds  of  debauchery  and  villainy  were  practised,  and 
where  dire  diseases  were  bred,  that  came  into  court  with  the  prisoners,  and  some- 
times rushed  straight  from  the  dock  at  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  himself,  and  pulled 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities, 


14 

him  off  the  bench.  It  had  more  than  once  happened,  that  the  Judge  in  the  black 
cap  pronounced  his  own  doom  as  certainly  as  the  prisoner’s,  and  even  died  before 
him.  For  the  rest,  the  Old  Bailey  was  famous  as  a kind  of  deadly  inn-yard,  from 
which  pale  travellers  set  out  continually,  in  carts  and  coaches,  on  a violent  passage 
into  the  other  world  : traversing  some  two  miles  and  a half  of  public  street  and  road, 
and  shaming  few  good  citizens,  if  any.  So  powerful  is  use,  and  so  desirable  to 
be  good  use  in  the  beginning.  It  was  famous,  too,  for  the  pillory,  a wise  old  insti- 
tution, that  inflicted  a punishment  of  which  no  one  could  foresee  the  extent ; also, 
for  the  whipping-post,  another  dear  old  institution,  very  humanising  and  softening 
to  behold  in  action  ; also,  for  extensive  transactions  in  blood -money,  another  frag- 
ment of  ancestral  wisdom,  systematically  leading  to  the  most  frightful  mercenary 
crimes  that  could  be  committed  under  Heaven.  Altogether,  the  Old  Bailey,  at 
that  date,  was  a choice  illustration  of  the  precept,  that  “Whatever  is  is  right ; ” 
an  aphorism  that  would  be  as  final  as  it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  include  the  troublesome 
consequence,  that  nothing  that  ever  was,  was  wrong. 

Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd,  dispersed  up  and  down  this  hideous 
scene  of  action,  with  the  skill  of  a man  accustomed  to  make  his  way  quietly,  the 
messenger  found  out  the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his  letter  through  a trap 
in  it.  For,  people  then  paid  to  see  the  play  at  the  Old  Bailey,  just  as  they  paid 
to  see  the  play  in  Bedlam — only  the  former  entertainment  was  much  the  dearer. 
Therefore,  all  the  Old  Bailey  doors  were  well  guarded — except,  indeed,  the  social 
doors  by  which  the  criminals  got  there,  and  those  were  always  left  wide  open. 

After  some  delay  and  demur,  the  door  grudgingly  turned  on  its  hinges  a very 
little  way,  and  allowed  Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher  to  squeeze  himself  into  court. 

“ What’s  on  ? ” he  asked,  in  a whisper,  of  the  man  he  found  himself  next  to. 

“ Nothing  yet.” 

“What’s  coming  on  ? 99 

“ The  Treason  case.” 

“ The  quartering  one,  eh  ? 99 

“ Ah  ! ” returned  the  man,  with  a relish  ; “he’ll  be  drawn  on  a hurdle  to  be 
half  hanged,  and  then  he’ll  be  taken  down  and  sliced  before  his  own  face,  and 
then  his  inside  will  be  taken  out  and  burnt  while  he  looks  on,  and  then  his  head 
will  be  chopped  off,  and  he’ll  be  cut  into  quarters.  That’s  the  sentence.” 

“ If  he’s  found  Guilty,  you  mean  to  say  ?”  Jerry  added,  by  way  of  proviso. 

“ Oh  ! they’ll  find  him  guilty,”  said  the  other.  “ Don’t  you  be  afraid  of  that.” 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  attention  was  here  diverted  to  the  doorkeeper,  whom  he  saw 
making  his  way  to  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the  note  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  a table, 
among  the  gentlemen  in  wigs  : not  far  from  a wigged  gentleman,  the  prisoner’s 
counsel,  who  had  a great  bundle  of  papers  before  him : and  nearly  opposite 
another  wigged  gentleman  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whose  whole  attention, 
when  Mr.  Cruncher  looked  at  him  then  or  afterwards,  seemed  to  be  concentrated 
on  the  ceiling  of  the  court.  After  some  gruff  coughing  and  rubbing  of  his  chin 
and  signing  with  his  hand,  Jerry  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  stood 
up  to  look  for  him,  and  who  quietly  nodded  and  sat  down  again. 

“ What’s  he  got  to  do  with  the  case  ? ” asked  the  man  he  had  spoken  with. 

“ Blest  if  I know,”  said  Jerry. 

“ What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it,  then,  if  a person  may  inquire  ? 99 

“ Blest  if  I know  that  either,”  said  Jerry. 

The  entrance  of  the  Judge,  and  a consequent  great  stir  and  settling  down  in  the 
court,  stopped  the  dialogue.  Presently,  the  dock  became  the  central  point  ol 
interest.  Two  gaolers,  who  had  been  standing  there,  went  out,  and  the  prisonei 
was  brought  in,  and  put  to  the  bar. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged  gentleman  who  looked  at  the  ceilii  g, 


Attainted  of  High  T reason . 


35 


stared  at  him.  All  the  human  breath  in  the  place,  rolled  at  him,  like  a sea,  or  a 
wind,  or  a fire.  Eager  faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners,  to  get  a sight  of 
him  ; spectators  in  back -rows  stood  up,  not  to  miss  a hair  of  him  ; people  on  the 
floor  of  the  court,  laid  their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people  before  them,  to 
help  themselves,  at  anybody’s  cost,  to  a view  of  him— stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon 
ledges,  stood  upon  next  to  nothing,  to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous  among 
these  latter,  like  an  animated  bit  of  the  spiked  wall  of  Newgate,  Jerry  stood  : 
aiming  at  the  prisoner  the  beery  breath  of  a whet  he  had  taken  as  he  came  along, 
and  discharging  it  to  mingle  with  the  waves  of  other  beer,  and  gin,  and  tea,  and 
coffee,  and  what  not,  that  flowed  at  him,  and  already  broke  upon  the  great  windows 
behind  him  in  an  impure  mist  and  rain. 

The  object  of  all  this  staring  and  blaring,  was  a young  man  of  about  five-and- 
twenty,  well-grown  and  well-looking,  with  a sunburnt  cheek  and  a dark  eye.  His 
condition  was  that  of  a young  gentleman.  He  was  plainly  dressed  in  black,  or 
very  dark  grey,  and  his  hair,  which  was  long  and  dark,  was  gathered  in  a ribbon 
at  the  back  of  his  neck  ; more  to  be  out  of  his  way  than  for  ornament.  As  an 
emotion  of  the  mind  will  express  itself  through  any  covering  of  the  body,  so  the 
paleness  which  his  situation  engendered  came  through  the  brown  upon  his  cheek, 
showing  the  soul  to  be  stronger  than  the  sun.  He  was  otherwise  quite  self- 
possessed,  bowed  to  the  Judge,  and  stood  quiet. 

The  sort  of  interest  with  which  this  man  was  stared  and  breathed  at,  was  not  a 
sort  that  elevated  humanity.  Had  he  stood  in  peril  of  a less  horrible  sentence — • 
had  there  been  a chance  of  any  one  of  its  savage  details  being  spared — by  just  so 
much  would  he  have  lost  in  his  fascination.  The  form  that  was  to  be  doomed  to 
be  so  shamefully  mangled,  was  the  sight ; the  immortal  creature  that  was  to  be 
so  butchered  and  torn  asunder,  yielded  the  sensation.  Whatever  gloss  the  various 
spectators  put  upon  the  interest,  according  to  their  several  arts  and  powers  of  self- 
deceit,  the  interest  was,  at  the  root  of  it,  Ogreish. 

Silence  in  the  court ! Charles  Darnay  had  yesterday  pleaded  Not  Guilty  to  an 
indictment  denouncing  him  (with  infinite  jingle  and  jangle)  for  that  he  was  a false 
traitor  to  our  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth,  prince,  our  Lord  the  King, 
by  reason  of  his  having,  on  divers  occasions,  and  by  divers  means  and  ways, 
assisted  Lewis,  the  French  King,  in  his  w’ars  against  our  said  serene,  illustrious, 
excellent,  and  so  forth  ; that  was  to  say,  by  coming  and  going,  between  the 
dominions  of  our  said  serene,  illustrious,  excellent,  and  so  forth,  and  those  of  the 
said  French  Lewis,  and  wickedly,  falsely,  traitorously,  and  otherwise  evil-adverbi- 
ously,  revealing  to  the  said  French  Lewis  what  forces  our  said  serene,  illustrious, 
excellent,  and  so  forth,  had  in  preparation  to  send  to  Canada  and  North  America. 
This  much,  Jerry,  with  his  head  becoming  more  and  more  spiky  as  the  law  terms 
bristled  it,  made  out  with  huge  satisfaction,  and  so  arrived  circuitously  at  the 
understanding  that  the  aforesaid,  and  over  and  over  again  aforesaid,  Charles 
Darnay,  stood  there  before  him  upon  his  trial ; that  the  jury  were  swearing  in ; 
and  that  Mr.  Attorney-General  was  making  ready  to  speak. 

The  accused,  who  was  (and  who  knew  he  was)  being  mentally  hanged, 
beheaded,  and  quartered,  by  everybody  there,  neither  flinched  from  the  situation, 
nor  assumed  any  theatrical  air  in  it.  He  was  quiet  and  attentive ; watched  the 
opening  proceedings  with  a grave  interest ; and  stood  with  his  hands  resting  on 
the  slab  of  wood  before  him,  so  composedly,  that  they  had  not  displaced  a leaf  ot 
the  herbs  with  which  it  was  strewn.  The  court  was  all  bestrewn  with  herbs  and 
sprinkled  with  vinegar,  as  a precaution  against  gaol  air  and  gaol  fever. 

Over  the  prisoner’s  head  there  was  a mirror,  to  throw  the  light  down  upon  him. 
Crowds  of  the  wicked  and  the  wretched  had  been  reflected  in  it,  and  had  passed 
from  its  surface  and  this  earth’s  together.  Haunted  in  a most  ghastly  manner  thm 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


36 

abominable  place  would  have  been,  if  the  glass  could  ever  have  rendered  back  its 
reflections,  is  the  ocean  is  one  day  to  give  up  its  dead.  Some  passing  thought  of 
the  infamy  and  disgrace  for  which  it  had  been  reserved,  may  have  struck  the  pri- 
soner’s mind.  Be  that  as  it  may,  a change  in  his  position  making  him  conscious 
of  a bar  of  light  across  his  face,  he  looked  up  ; and  when  he  saw  the  glass  his  face 
flushed,  and  his  right  hand  pushed  the  herbs  away. 

It  happened,  that  the  action  turned  his  face  to  that  side  of  the  court  which  was 
on  his  lelt.  About  on  a level  with  his  eyes,  there  sat,  in  that  comer  of  the  Judge’s 
bench,  two  persons  upon  whom  his  look  immediately  rested  ; so  immediately,  and 
so  much  to  the  changing  of  his  aspect,  that  all  the  eyes  that  were  turned  upon 
him,  turned  to  them. 

The  spectators  saw  in  the  two  figures,  a )'oung  lady  of  little  more  than  twenty, 
and  a gentleman  who  was  evidently  her  father ; a man  of  a very  remarkable 
appearance  in  respect  of  the  absolute  whiteness  of  his  hair,  and  a certain  inde- 
scribable intensity  of  face  : not  of  an  active  kind,  but  pondering  and  self-com- 
muning. When  this  expression  was  upon  him,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  old  ; but 
when  it  was  stirred  and  broken  up — as  it  was  now,  in  a moment,  on  his  speaking 
to  his  daughter — he  became  a handsome  man,  not  past  the  prime  of  life. 

His  daughter  had  one  of  her  hands  drawn  through  his  arm,  as  she  sat  by  him, 
and  the  other  pressed  upon  it.  She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  in  her  dread  of  the 
scene,  and  in  her  pity  for  the  prisoner.  Her  forehead  had  been  strikingly  expres- 
sive of  an  engrossing  terror  and  compassion  that  saw  nothing  but  the  peril  of  the 
accused.  This  had  been  so  very  noticeable,  so  very  powerfully  and  naturally 
shown,  that  starers  who  had  had  no  pity  for  him  were  touched  by  her;  and  the 
whisper  went  about,  “ Who  are  they  ?” 

Jerry,  the  messenger,  who  had  made  his  own  observations,  in  his  own  manner, 
and  who  had  been  sucking  the  rust  off  his  fingers  in  his  absorption,  stretched  his 
neck  to  hear  who  they  were.  The  crowd  about  him  had  pressed  and  passed  the 
inquiry  on  to  the  nearest  attendant,  and  from  him  it  had  been  more  slowly  pressed 
and  passed  back  ; at  last  it  got  to  Jerry : 

“Witnesses.” 

“ For  which  side  ?” 

“ Against.” 

“ Against  what  side  ?” 

“ The  prisoner’s” 

The  Judge,  whose  eyes  had  gone  in  the  general  direction,  recalled  them,  leaned 
back  in  his  seat,  and  looked  steadily  at  the  man  whose  life  was  in  his  hand,  as  Mr. 
Attorney-General  rose  to  spin  the  rope,  grind  the  axe,  and  hammer  the  nails  into 
the  scaffold. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Mr.  Attorney-General  had  to  inform  the  jury,  that  the  prisoner  before  them, 
though  young  in  years,  was  old  in  the  treasonable  practices  which  claimed  the 
forfeit  of  his  life.  That  this  correspondence  with  the  public  enemy  was  not  a 
correspondence  of  to-day,  or  of  yesterday,  or  even  of  last  year,  or  of  the  year  before. 
That,  it  was  certain  the  prisoner  had,  for  longer  than  that,  been  in  the  habit  of 
passing  and  repassing  between  France  and  England,  on  secret  business  of  which 
he  could  give  no  honest  account.  That,  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of  traitorous  ways 
to  thrive  (which  happily  it  never  was),  the  real  wickedness  and  guilt  of  his  business 


Mr.  Attorney-General for  the  Crown. 


3) 


flight  have  remained  undiscovered.  That  Providence,  however,  had  put  it  into 
the  heart  of  a person  who  was  beyond  fear  and  beyond  reproach,  to  ferret  out  the 
nature  of  the  prisoner’s  schemes,  and,  struck  with  horror,  to  disclose  them  to  his 
Majesty’s  Chief  Secretary  of  State  and  most  honourable  Privy  Council.  That,  this 
patriot  would  be  produced  before  them.  That,  his  position  and  attitude  were,  on 
the  whole,  sublime.  That,  he  had  been  the  prisoner’s  friend,  but,  at  once  in  an 
auspicious  and  an  evil  hour  detecting  his  infamy,  had  resolved  to  immolate  the 
traitor  he  could  no  longer  cherish  in  his  bosom,  on  the  sacred  altar  of  his  country. 
That,  if  statues  were  decreed  in  Britain,  as  in  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  to 
public  benefactors,  this  shining  citizen  would  assuredly  have  had  one.  That,  as 
they  were  not  so  decreed,  he  probably  would  not  have  one.  That,  Virtue,  as  had 
been  observed  by  the  poets  (in  many  passages  which  he  well  knew  the  jury  would 
have,  word  for  word,  at  the  tips  of  their  tongues  ; whereat  the  jury’s  countenances 
displayed  a guilty  consciousness  that  they  knew  nothing  about  the  passages),  was  in 
a manner  contagious  ; more  especially  the  bright  virtue  known  as  patriotism,  or 
love  of  country.  That,  the  lofty  example  of  this  immaculate  and  unimpeachable 
witness  for  the  Crown,  to  refer  to  whom  however  unworthily  was  an  honour,  had 
communicated  itself  to  the  prisoner’s  servant,  and  had  engendered  in  him  a holy 
determination  to  examine  his  master’s  table-drawers  and  pockets,  and  secrete  his 
papers.  That,  he  (Mr.  Attorney-General)  was  prepared  to  hear  some  disparage- 
ment attempted  of  this  admirable  servant ; but  that,  in  a general  way,  he  preferred 
him  to  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General’s)  brothers  and  sisters,  and  honoured  him  more 
than  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General’s)  father  and  mother.  That,  he  called  with  con- 
fidence on  the  jury  to  come  and  do  likewise.  That,  the  evidence  of  these  two 
witnesses,  coupled  with  the  documents  of  their  discovering  that  would  be  produced, 
Would  show  the  prisoner  to  have  been  furnished  with  lists  of  his  Majesty’s  forces, 
and  of  their  disposition  and  preparation,  both  by  sea  and  land,  and  would  leave 
no  doubt  that  he  had  habitually  conveyed  such  informat:on  to  a hostile  power. 
That,  these  lists  could  not  be  proved  to  be  in  the  prisoner’s  handwriting  ; but  that 
it  was  all  the  same ; that,  indeed,  it  was  rather  the  better  for  the  prosecution,  as 
showing  the  prisoner  to  be  artful  in  his  precautions.  That,  the  proof  would  go 
back  five  years,  and  would  show  the  prisoner  already  engaged  in  these  pernicious 
missions,  within  a few  weeks  before  the  date  of  the  very  first  action  fought 
between  the  British  troops  and  the  Americans.  That,  for  these  reasons,  the  jury, 
being  a loyal  jury  (as  he  knew  they  were),  and  being  a responsible  jury  (as  they 
knew  they  were),  must  positively  find  the  prisoner  Guilty,  and  make  an  end  of  him, 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  That,  they  never  could  lay  their  heads  upon  their 
pillows  ; that,  they  never  could  tolerate  the  idea  of  their  wdves  laying  their  heads 
upon  their  pillows  ; that,  they  never  could  endure  the  notion  of  their  children 
laying  their  heads  upon  their  pillows  ; in  short,  that  there  never  more  could  be, 
for  them  or  theirs,  any  laying  of  heads  upon  pillows  at  all,  unless  the  prisoner’s 
head  was  taken  off.  That  head  Mr.  Attorney-General  concluded  by  demanding 
of  them,  in  the  name  of  everything  he  could  think  of  with  a round  turn  in  it,  and 
on  the  faith  of  his  solemn  asseveration  that  he  already  considered  the  prisoner  as 
good  as  dead  and  gone. 

When  the  Attorney-General  ceased,  a buzz  arose  in  the  court  as  if  a cloud  of 
great  blue-flies  were  swarming  about  the  prisoner,  in  anticipation  of  what  he  was 
soon  to  become.  When  toned  down  again,  the  unimpeachable  patriot  appeared 
in  the  witness-box. 

Mr.  Solicitor-General  then,  following  his  leader’s  lead,  examined  the  patriot : 
John  Barsad,  gentleman,  by  name.  The  story  of  his  pure  soul  was  exactly  whaf 
Mr.  Attorney- General  had  described  it  to  be — perhaps,  if  it  had  a fault,  a little  too 
exactly.  Having  released  his  noble  bosom  oi  its  burden,  he  would  have  modestly 


38 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


withdrawn  himself,  but  that  the  wigged  gentleman  with  the  papers  before  him, 
sitting  not  far  from  Mr.  Lorry,  begged  to  ask  him  a few  questions.  The  wigged 
gentleman  sitting  opposite,  still  looldng  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court. 

Had  he  ever  been  a spy  himself?  No,  he  scorned  the  base  insinuation.  What 
did  he  live  upon  ? His  property.  Where  was  his  property  ? He  didn’t  pre- 
cisely remember  where  it  was.  What  was  it  ? No  business  of  anybody’s.  Had 
he  inherited  it?  Yes,  he  had.  From  whom?  Distant  relation.  Very  distant? 
Rather.  Ever  been  in  prison  ? Certainly  not.  Never  in  a debtors’  prison  ? 
Didn’t  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  Never  in  a debtors’  prison  ? — Come,  once 
again.  Never  ? Yes.  How  many  times  ? Two  or  three  times.  Not  five  or  six  C 
Perhaps.  Of  what  profession  ? Gentleman.  Ever  been  kicked  ? Might  have 
been.  Frequently  ? No.  Ever  kicked  down  stairs  ? Decidedly  not ; once 
received  a kick  on  the  top  of  a staircase,  and  fell  down  stairs  of  his  own  accord. 
Kicked  on  that  occasion  for  cheating  at  dice  ? Something  to  that  effect  was  said 
by  the  intoxicated  liar  who  committed  the  assault,  but  it  was  not  true.  Swear  it 
was  not  true  ? Positively.  Ever  live  by  cheating  at  play  ? Never.  Ever  live  by 
play  ? Not  more  than  other  gentlemen  do.  Ever  borrow  money  of  the  prisoner  ? 
Yes.  Ever  pay  him  ? No.  Was  not  this  intimacy  with  the  prisoner,  in  reality 
a very  slight  one,  forced  upon  the  prisoner  in  coaches,  inns,  and  packets  ? No 
Sure  he  saw  the  prisoner  with  these  lists  ? Certain.  Knew  no  more  about  the 
lists  ? No.  Had  not  procured  them  himself,  for  instance  ? No.  Expect  to  get 
anything  by  this  evidence  ? No.  Not  in  regular  government  pay  and  employment, 
to  lay  traps  ? Oh  dear  no.  Or  to  do  anything  ? Oh  dear  no.  Swear  that  ? Over 
and  over  again.  No  motives  but  motives  of  sheer  patriotism  ? None  whatever. 

The  virtuous  servant,  Roger  Cly,  swore  his  way  through  the  case  at  a great  rate. 
He  had  taken  service  with  the  prisoner,  in  good  faith  and  simplicity,  four  years 
ago.  He  had  asked  the  prisoner,  aboard  the  Calais  packet,  if  he  wanted  a handy 
feliow,  and  the  prisoner  had  engaged  him.  He  had  not  asked  the  prisoner  to  take 
the  handy  fellow  as  an  act  of  charity — never  thought  of  such  a thing,  He  began 
to  have  suspicions  of  the  prisoner,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon  him,  soon  afterwards. 
In  arranging  his  clothes,  while  travelling,  he  had  seen  similar  lists  to  these  in  the 
prisoner’s  pockets,  over  and  over  again..  He  had  taken  these  lists  from  the  drawer 
of  the  prisoner’s  desk.  He  had  not  put  them  there  first.  He  had  seen  the 
prisoner  show  these  identical  lists  to  French  gentlemen  at  Calais,  and  similar  lists 
to  French  gentlemen,  both  at  Calais  and  Boulogne.  He  loved  his  country,  and 
couldn’t  bear  it,  and  had  given  information.  He  had  never  been  suspected  ot 
stealing  a silver  tea-pot ; he  had  been  maligned  respecting  a mustard-pot,  but  it 
turned  out  to  be  only  a plated  one.  He  had  known  the  last  witness  seven  or  eight 
years  , that  was  merely  a coincidence.  He  didn’t  call  it  & particularly  curious 
coincidence  ; most  coincidences  were  curious.  Neither  did  he  call  it  a curious 
coincidence  that  true  patriotism  was  his  only  motive  too.  He  was  a true  Briton, 
and  hoped  there  were  many  like  him. 

The  blue-flies  buzzed  again,  and  Mr.  Attorney- General  called  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

“ Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  are  you  a clerk  in  Tellson’s  bank  ?” 

“lam.” 

“ On  a certain  Fridaynight  inNovember  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy* 
tfve,  did  business  occasion  you  to  travel  between  London  and  Dover  by  the  mail  ?” 
“It  did.” 

“Were  there  any  other  passengers  in  the  mail  ?” 

44  Two.” 

“Did  they  alight  on  the  road  in  the  course  of  the  night  ?” 

“ They  did.” 

“ Mr.  Loiry,  look  upon  the  prisoner  Was  he  one  of  those  two  passengets  ?* 


Mr.  Attorney-GeneraF s Witnesses. 


39 


“ I cannot  undertake  to  say  that  it  was.” 

“ Does  he  resemble  either  of  these  two  passengers  ?” 

“Both  were  so  wrapped  up,  and  the  night  was  so  dark,  and  we  were  all  sc 
reserved,  that  I cannot  undertake  to  say  even  that.” 

“ Mr.  Lorry,  look  again  upon  the  prisoner.  Supposing  him  wrapped  up  as 
those  two  passengers  were,  is  there  anything  in  his  bulk  and  stature  to  render  i* 
unlikely  that  he  was  one  of  them  ?” 

“No.” 

“You  will  not  swear,  Mr.  Lorry,  that  he  was  not  one  of  them  ?” 

“No.” 

“ So  at  least  you  say  he  may  have  been  one  of  them  ?”  « 

“Yes.  Except  that  I remember  them  both  to  have  been — like  myself — timorous 
of  highwaymen,  and  the  prisoner  has  not  a timorous  air.” 

“ Did  you  ever  see  a counterfeit  of  timidity,  Mr.  Lorry?” 

“ I certainly  have  seen  that.” 

“ Mr.  Lorry,  look  once  more  upon  the  prisoner.  Have  you  seen  him,  to  your 
certain  knowledge,  before  ?” 

“ I have.” 

“ When  ?” 

“ I was  returning  from  France  a few  days  afterwards,  and,  at  Calais,  th 
prisoner  came  on  board  the  packet-ship  in  which  I returned,  and  made  the  voyag 
with  me.” 

“ At  what  hour  did  he  come  on  board  ?” 

“ At  a little  after  midnight.” 

“ In  the  dead  of  the  night.  Was  he  the  only  passenger  who  came  on  board  at 
that  untimely  hour  ?” 

“ He  happened  to  be  the  only  one.” 

“ Never  mind  about  * happening.’  Mr.  Lorry.  He  was  the  only  passenger  who 
came  on  board  in  the  dead  of  the  night  ?” 

“He  was.” 

“ Were  you  travelling  alone,  Mr.  Lorry,  or  with  any  companion  ?” 

“ With  two  companions.  A gentleman  and  lady.  They  are  heie.” 

“ They  are  here.  Had  you  any  conversation  with  the  prisoner  ?” 

“ Hardly  any.  The  weather  was  stormy,  and  the  passage  long  and  rough,  and 
1 lay  on  a sofa,  almost  from  shore  to  shore.” 

“ Miss  Manette !” 

The  young  lady,  to  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  before,  and  were  now  turned 
again,  stood  up  where  she  had  sat.  Her  father  rose  with  her,  and  kept  her  hano 
drawn  through  his  arm. 

“Miss  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.” 

To  be  confronted  with  such  pity,  and  such  earnest  youth  and  beauty,  was  far 
more  trying  to  the  accused  than  to  be  confronted  with  all  the  crowd.  Standing, 
as  it  were,  apart  with  her  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  not  all  the  staring  curiosity  that 
looked  on,  could,  for  the  moment,  nerve  him  to  remain  quite  still.  His  hurried 
right  hand  parcelled  out  the  herbs  before  him  into  imaginary  beds  of  flowers  in  a 
garden  ; and  his  efforts  to  control  and  steady  his  breathing  shook  the  lips  from 
which  the  colour  rushed  to  his  heart.  The  buzz  of  the  great  flies  was  loud  again. 
“ Miss  Manette,  have  you  seen  the  prisoner  before  ?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“Where  ?” 

“ On  board  of  the  packet-ship  just  now  referred  to,  sir,  and  on  the  same  occ* 
“ You  are  the  young  lady  just  now  referred  to  ?” 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ O ! most  unhappily,  I am  !” 

The  plaintive  tone  of  her  compassion  merged  into  the  less  musical  voice  of  the 
Judge,  as  he  said  something  fiercely:  “Answer  the  questions  put  to  you,  and 
make  no  remark  upon  them.” 

“ Miss  Manette,  had  you  any  conversation  with  the  prisoner  on  that  passage 
across  the  Channel  ?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“ Recall  it.” 

In  the  midst  of  a profound  stillness,  she  faintly  began : 

“ When  the  gentleman  came  on  board ” 

“ Do  you  mean  the  prisoner  ?”  inquired  the  Judge,  knitting  his  brows. 

“ Yes,  my  Lord.” 

“ Then  say  the  prisoner.” 

“ When  the  prisoner  came  on  board,  he  noticed  that  my  father,”  turning  her 
eyes  lovingly  to  him  as  he  stood  beside  her,  “was  much  fatigued  and  in  a very 
weak  state  of  health.  My  father  was  so  reduced  that  I was  afraid  to  take  him  out 
of  the  air,  and  I had  made  a bed  for  him  on  the  deck  near  the  cabin  steps,  and  I 
sat  on  the  deck  at  his  side  to  take  care  of  him.  There  were  no  other  passengers  that 
night,  but  we  four.  The  prisoner  was  so  good  as  to  beg  permission  to  advise  me 
how  I could  shelter  my  father  from  the  wind  and  weather,  better  than  I had  done. 
I had  not  known  how  to  do  it  well,  not  understanding  how  the  wind  would  set 
when  we  were  out  of  the  harbour.  He  did  it  for  me.  He  expressed  great  gentle- 
ness and  kindness  for  my  father’s  state,  and  I am  sure  he  felt  it.  That  was  the 
manner  of  our  beginning  to  speak  together.” 

“ Let  me  interrupt  you  for  a moment.  Had  he  come  on  board  alone  ?w 
“ No.” 

“ How  many  were  with  him  ?” 

“ Two  French  gentleman.” 

“ Had  they  conferred  together  ?” 

“ They  had  conferred  together  until  the  last  moment,  when  it  was  necessary  tor 
the  French  gentlemen  to  be  landed  in  their  boat.” 

“ Had  any  papers  been  handed  about  among  them,  similar  to  these  lists  ?” 

“ Some  papers  had  been  handed  about  among  them,  but  I don’t  know  what 
papers.” 

“Like  these  in  shape  and  size  ?” 

“ Possibly,  but  indeed  I don’t  know,  although  they  stood  whispering  very  near 
to  me : because  they  stood  at  the  top  of  the  cabin  steps  to  have  the  light  of  the 
lamp  that  was  hanging  there  ; it  was  a dull  lamp,  and  they  spoke  very  low,  and  I 
did  not  hear  what  they  said,  and  saw  only  that  they  looked  at  papers.” 

“ Now,  to  the  prisoner’s  conversation,  Miss  Manette.” 

“ The  prisoner  was  as  open  in  his  confidence  with  me — which  arose  out  of  my 
helpless  situation — as  he  was  kind,  and  good,  and  useful  to  my  father.  I hope,” 
bursting  into  tears,  “ I may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm  to-day.” 

Bunzing  from  the  blue-flies. 

“ Miss  Manette,  if  the  prisoner  does  not  perfectly  understand  that  you  give  the 
evidence  which  it  is  your  duty  to  give — which  you  must  give — and  which  you  can- 
not escape  from  giving — with  great  unwillingness,  he  is  the  only  person  present  in 
that  condition.  Please  to  go  on.” 

“ He  told  me  that  he  was  travelling  on  business  of  a delicate  and  difficult  nature, 
which  might  get  people  into  trouble,  and  that  he  was  therefore  travelling  under 
an  assumed  name.  He  said  that  this  business  had,  within  a few  days,  taken  him 
to  France,  and  might,  at  intervals,  take  him  backwards  and  forwards  between 
France  and  England  for  a long  time  to  come.” 


Mr.  Attorney-Genera T s Case \ 


41 

44  Did  he  say  anything  about  America,  Miss  Manette  ? Be  particular.” 

“He  tried  to  explain  to  me  how  that  quarrel  had  arisen,  and  he  said  that,  so  fai 
as  he  could  judge,  it  was  a wrong  and  foolish  one  on  England’s  part.  He  added, 
in  a jesting  way,  that  perhaps  George  Washington  might  gain  almost  as  great  a 
name  in  history  as  George  the  Third.  But  there  was  no  harm  in  his  way  of  saying 
this  : it  was  said  laughingly,  and  to  beguile  the  time.” 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on  the  part  of  a chief  actor  in  a scene  of 
great  interest  to  whom  many  eyes  are  directed,  will  be  unconsciously  imitated  by 
the  spectators.  Her  forehead  was  painfully  anxious  and  intent  as  she  gave  this 
evidence,  and,  in  the  pauses  when  she  stopped  for  the  Judge  to  write  it  down, 
watched  its  effect  upon  the  counsel  for  and  against.  Among  the  lookers-on  there 
was  the  same  expression  in  all  quarters  of  the  court  ; insomuch,  that  a great 
majority  of  the  foreheads  there,  might  have  been  mirrors  reflecting  the  witness, 
when  the  Judge  looked  up  from  his  notes  to  glare  at  that  tremendous  heresy  about 
George  Washington. 

Mr.  Attorney- Gen  era!  now  signified  to  my  Lord,  that  he  deemed  it  necessary, 
as  a matter  of  precaution  and  form,  to  call  the  young  lady’s  father,  Doctor 
Manette.  Who  was  called  accordingly. 

“ Doctor  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Have  you  ever  seen  him  before  ?” 

“ Once.  When  he  called  at  my  lodgings  in  London.  Some  three  years,  or 
three  years  and  a half  ago.” 

“ Can  you  identify  him  as  your  fellow-passenger  on  board  the  packet,  or  speak 
to  his  conversation  with  your  daughter  ?” 

“ Sir,  I can  do  neither.” 

“ Is  there  any  particular  and  special  reason  for  your  being  unable  to  do  either  ?*• 
He  answered,  in  a low  voice,  “There  is.” 

“ Has  it  been  your  misfortune  to  undergo  a long  imprisonment,  without  trial, 
or  even  accusation,  in  your  native  country,  Doctor  Manette  ?” 

He  answered,  in  a tone  that  went  to  every  heart,  “ A long  imprisonment.” 

“ Were  you  newly  released  on  the  occasion  in  question  ?” 

“ They  tell  me  so.” 

“ Have  you  no  remembrance  of  the  occasion  ?” 

“ None.  My  mind  is  a blank,  from  some  time — I cannot  even  say  what  time — 
when  I employed  myself,  in  my  captivity,  in  making  shoes,  to  the  time  when  I 
found  myself  living  in  London  with  my  dear  daughter  here.  She  had  become 
familiar  to  me,  when  a gracious  God  restored  my  faculties  ; but,  I am  quite  unable 
even  to  say  how  she  had  become  familiar.  I have  no  remembrance  of  the 
process.” 

Mr.  Attorney-General  sat  down,  and  the  father  and  daughter  sat  down  together. 
A singular  circumstance  then  arose  in  the  case.  The  object  in  hand  being  to 
show  that  the  prisoner  went  down,  with  some  fellow-plotter  untracked,  in  the 
Dover  mail  on  that  Friday  night  in  November  five  years  ago,  and  got  out  of  the 
mail  in  the  night,  as  a blind,  at  a place  where  he  did  not  remain,  but  from  which 
he  travelled  back  some  dozen  miles  or  more,  to  a garrison  and  dockyard,  and  there 
collected  information  ; a witness  was  called  to  identify  him  as  having  been  at  the 
precise  time  required,  in  the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  in  that  garrison-and-dockyard 
town,  waiting  for  another  person.  The  prisoner’s  counsel  was  cross-examining 
this  witness  with  no  result,  except  that  he  had  never  seen  the  prisoner  on  any  other 
occasion,  when  the  wigged  gentleman  who  had  all  this  time  been  looking  at  the 
ceiling  of  the  court,  wrote  a word  or  two  on  a little  piece  of  paper,  screwed  it  up, 
and  tossed  it  to  him.  Opening  this  piece  of  paper  in  the  next  pause,  the  counsel 
looked  with  great  attention  and  curiosity  at  the  prisoner. 

“ You  say  again  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  was  the  prisoner  ?” 


A Title  of  Two  Cities. 


♦* 


The  witness  was  quite  sure. 

“ Did  you  evu-  see  anybody  very  like  the  prisoner  ?” 

Not  so  like  (the  witness  said)  as  that  he  could  be  mistaken. 

“Look  well  upon  that  gentleman,  my  learned  friend  there,”  pointing  to  him 
who  had  tossed  the  paper  over,  “ and  then  look  well  upon  the  prisoner.  How  say 
you  ? Are  they  very  like  each  other  ?” 

Allowing  for  my  learned  friend’s  appearance  being  careless  and  slovenly  if  not 
debauched,  they  were  sufficiently  like  each  other  to  surprise,  not  only  the  witness, 
but  everybody  present,  when  they  were  thus  brought  into  comparison.  My  Lord 
being  prayed  to  bid  my  learned  friend  lay  aside  his  wig,  and  giving  no  very  gracious 
consent,  the  likeness  became  much  more  remarkable.  My  Lord  inquired  of  Mr. 
Stryver  (the  prisoner’s  counsel),  whether  they  were  next  to  try  Mr.  Carton  (name 
of  my  learned  friend)  for  treason  ? But,  Mr.  Stryver  replied  to  my  Lord,  no  ; but 
he  would  ask  the  witness  to  tell  him  whether  what  happened  once,  might  Happen 
twice  ; whether  he  would  have  been  so  confident  if  he  had  seen  this  illustration  of 
his  rashness  sooner,  whether  he  would  be  so  confident,  having  seen  it ; and  more. 
The  upshot  of  which,  was,  to  smash  this  witness  like  a crockery  vessel,  and  shiver 
his  part  of  the  case  to  useless  lumber. 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  by  this  time  taken  quite  a lunch  of  rust  off  his  fingers  in  his 
following  of  the  evidence.  He  had  now  to  attend  while  Mr.  Stryver  fitted  the 
prisoner’s  case  on  the  jury,  like  a compact  suit  of  clothes  ; showing  them  how  the 
patriot,  Barsad,  was  a hired  spy  and  traitor,  an  unblushing  trafficker  in  blood,  and 
one  of  the  greatest  scoundrels  upon  earth  since  accursed  Judas — which  he  certainly 
did  look  rather  like.  How  the  virtuous  servant,  Cly,  was  his  friend  and  partner, 
and  was  worthy  to  be  ; how  the  watchful  eyes  of  those  forgers  and  false  swearers 
had  rested  on  the  prisoner  as  a victim,  because  some  family  affairs  in  France,  he 
being  of  French  extraction,  did  require  his  making  those  passages  across  the 
Channel — though  what  those  affairs  were,  a consideration  for  others  who  were 
near  and  dear  to  him,  forbad  him,  even  for  his  life,  to  disclose.  How  the 
evidence  that  had  been  warped  and  wrested  from  the  young  lady,  whose  anguish 
in  giving  it  they  had  witnessed,  came  to  nothing,  involving  the  mere  little  innocent 
gallantries  and  politenesses  likely  to  pass  between  any  young  gentleman  and  young 
lady  so  thrown  together ; — with  the  exception  of  that  reference  to  George 
Washington,  which  was  altogether  too  extravagant  and  impossible  to  be  regarded 
in  any  other  light  than  as  a monstrous  joke.  How  it  would  be  a weakness  in  the 
government  to  break  down  in  this  attempt  to  practise  for  popularity  on  the  lowest 
national  antipathies  and  fears,  and  therefore  Mr.  Attorney-General  had  made  the 
most  of  it ; how,  nevertheless,  it  rested  upon  nothing,  save  that  vile  and  infamous 
character  of  evidence  too  often  disfiguring  such  cases,  and  of  which  the  State 
Trials  of  this  country  were  full.  But,  there  my  Lord  interposed  (with  as  grave  a 
face  as  if  it  had  not  been  true),  saying  that  he  could  not  sit  upon  that  Bench  and 
suffer  those  allusions. 

Mr.  Stryver  then  called  his  few  witnesses,  and  Mr.  Cruncher  had  next  to  attend 
while  Mr.  Attorney- General  turned  the  whole  suit  of  clothes  Mr.  Stryver  had 
fitted  on  the  jury,  inside  out ; showing  how  Barsad  and  Cly  were  even  a hundred 
times  better  than  he  had  thought  them,  and  the  prisoner  a hundred  times  worse. , 
Lastly,  came  my  Lord  himself,  turning  the  suit  of  clothes,  now  inside  out,  now 
outside  in,  but  on  the  whole  decidedly  trimming  and  shaping  them  into  grave- 
clothes  for  the  prisoner. 

And  now,  the  jury  turned  to  consider,  and  the  great  flies  swarmed  again. 

Mr.  Carton,  who  had  so  long  sat  looking  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court,  changed 
neither  his  place  nor  his  attitude,  even  in  this  excitement.  While  his  learned 
friend,  Mr.  Stryver,  massing  his  papers  before  him,  whispered  with  those  who  sat 


Mr.  Carton  and  the  Defence. 


♦3 

near,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  anxiously  at  the  jury ; while  all  the  specta- 
tors moved  more  or  less,  and  grouped  themselves  anew  ; while  even  my  Lord 
himself  arose  from  his  seat,  and  slowly  paced  up  and  down  his  platform,  not 
unattended  by  a suspicion  in  the  minds  of  the  audience  that  his  state  was  feverish  ; 
this  one  man  sat  leaning  back,  with  his  torn  gown  half  off  him,  his  untidy  wig 
put  on  just  as  it  had  happened  to  light  on  his  head  after  its  removal,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  they  had  been  all  day.  Something  especially 
reckless  in  his  demeanour,  not  only  gave  him  a disreputable  look,  but  so  dimin- 
ished the  strong  resemblance  he  undoubtedly  bore  to  the  prisoner  (which  his 
momentary  earnestness,  when  they  were  compared  together,  had  strengthened), 
that  man)’  of  the  lookers-on,  taking  note  of  him  now,  said  to  one  another  they 
would  hardly  have  thought  the  two  were  so  alike.  Mr.  Cruncher  made  the  obser- 
vation to  his  next  neighbour,  and  added,  “ I’d  hold  half  a guinea  that  he  don’t 
get  no  law-work  to  do.  Don’t  look  like  the  sort  of  one  to  get  any,  do  he  ? ” 

Yet,  this  Mr.  Carton  took  in  more  of  the  details  of  the  scene  than  he  appeared 
to  take  in ; for  now,  when  Miss  Manette’s  head  dropped  upon  her  father’s  breast, 
he  was  the  first  to  see  it,  and  to  say  audibly:  “ Officer  ! look  to  that  young  lady. 
Help  the  gentleman  to  take  her  out.  Don’t  you  see  she  will  fall ! ” 

There  was  much  commiseration  for  her  as  she  was  removed,  and  much  sympathy 
with  her  father.  It  had  evidently  been  a great  distress  to  him,  to  have  the  days 
of  his  imprisonment  recalled.  He  had  shown  strong  internal  agitation  when  he 
was  questioned,  and  that  pondering  or  brooding  look  which  made  him  old,  had 
been  upon  him,  like  a heavy  cloud,  ever  since.  As  he  passed  out,  the  jury,  who 
had  turned  back  and  paused  a moment,  spoke,  through  their  foreman. 

They  were  not  agreed,  and  wished  to  retire.  My  Lord  (perhaps  with  George 
Washington  on  his  mind)  showed  some  surprise  that  they  were  not  agreed,  but 
signified  his  pleasure  that  they  should  retire  under  watch  and  ward,  and  retired 
himself.  The  trial  had  lasted  all  day,  and  the  lamps  in  the  court  were  now  being 
lighted.  It  began  to  be  rumoured  that  the  jury  would  be  out  a long  while.  The 
spectators  dropped  off  to  get  refreshment,  and  the  prisoner  withdrew  to  the  back 
of  the  dock,  and  sat  down. 

Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  gone  out  when  the  young  lady  and  her  father  went  out, 
now  reappeared,  and  beckoned  to  Jerry : who,  in  the  slackened  interest,  could 
easily  get  near  him. 

“Jerry,  if  you  wish  to  take  something  to  eat,  you  can.  But,  keep  in  the  way. 
You  will  be  sure  to  hear  when  the  jury  come  in.  Don’t  be  a moment  behind 
them,  for  I want  you  to  take  the  verdict  back  to  the  bank.  You  are  the  quickest 
messenger  I know,  and  will  get  to  Temple  Bar  long  before  I can.” 

Jerry  had  just  enough  forehead  to  knuckle,  and  he  knuckled  it  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  communication  and  a shilling.  Mr.  Carton  came  up  at  the  moment, 
and  touched  Mr.  Lorry  on  the  arm. 

“How  is  the  young  lady  ? ” 

“ She  is  greatly  distressed’;  but  her  father  is  comforting  her,  and  she  feels  the 
better  for  being  out  of  court.” 

“ I’ll  tell  the  prisoner  so.  It  won’t  do  for  a respectable  bank  gentleman  like 
you,  to  be  seen  speaking  to  him  publicly,  you  know.” 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  having  debated  the  point  in  his 
mind,  and  Mr.  Carton  made  his  way  to  the  outside  of  the  bar.  The  way  out  o i 
court  lay  in  that  direction,  and  Jerry  followed  him,  all  eyes,  ears,  and  spikes. 

“ Mr.  Darnay  ! ” 

The  prisoner  came  forward  directly. 

“ You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  hear  of  the  witness,  Miss  Manette.  Shs  will 
do  very  well  You  have  seen  the  worst  of  her  agitation.” 


f4 


I 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ I am  deeply  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  it.  Could  you  tell  her  so  for  me 
with  my  fervent  acknowledgments  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I could.  I will,  if  you  ask  it.” 

Mr.  Carton’s  manner  was  so  careless  as  to  be  almost  insolent.  He  stood,  half 
turned  from  the  prisoner,  lounging  with  his  elbow  against  the  bar. 

“ I do  ask  it.  Accept  my  cordial  thanks.” 

“ What,”  said  Carton,  still  only  half  turned  towards  him,  “do  you  expect,  Mr. 
Damay  ? ” 

“ The  worst.” 

u It’s  the  wisest  thing  to  expect,  and  the  likeliest.  But  I think  their  withdraw- 
ing is  in  your  favour.” 

Loitering  on  the  way  out  of  court  not  being  allowed,  Jerry  heard  no  more  : but 
left  them — so  like  each  other  in  feature,  so  unlike  each  other  in  manner — standing 
side  by  side,  both  reflected  in  the  glass  above  them. 

An  hour  and  a half  limped  heavily  away  in  the  thief-and-rascal  crowded  passages 
below,  even  though  assisted  off  with  mutton  pies  and  ale.  The  hoarse  messenger, 
uncomfortably  seated  on  a form  after  taking  that  refection,  had  dropped  into  a doze, 
when  a loud  murmur  and  a rapid  tide  of  people  setting  up  the  stairs  that  led  to 
the  court,  carried  him  along  with  them. 

“ Jerry  ! Jerry ! ” Mr.  Lorry  was  already  calling  at  the  door  when  he  got  there  . 

“ Here,  sir ! It’s  a fight  to  get  back  again.  Here  I am,  sir ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  handed  him  a paper  through  the  throng.  “ Quick  I Have  you  got 
it?” 

“ Yes,  sir  ? ” 

Hastily  written  on  the  paper  was  the  word  “ Acquitted.” 

“If  you  had  sent  the  message,  ‘ Recalled  to  Life,’  again,”  muttered  Jerry,  as 
he  turned,  “ I should  have  known  what  you  meant,  this  time.” 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  saying,  or  so  much  as  thinking,  anything  else,  until 
he  was  clear  of  the  Old  Bailey ; for,  the  crowd  came  pouring  out  with  a vehemence 
that  nearly  took  him  off  his  legs,  and  a loud  buzz  swept  into  the  street  as  if  the 
baffled  blue-flies  were  dispersing  in  search  of  other  carrion. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONG  R ATUL ATORY. 

From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court,  the  last  sediment  of  the  human 
stew  that  had  been  boiling  there  all  day,  was  straining  off,  when  Doctor  Manette, 
Lucie  Manette,  his  daughter,  Mr.  Lorry,  the  solicitor  for  the  defence,  and  its 
counsel,  Mr.  Strvver,  stood  gathered  round  Mr.  Charles  Darnay — -just  released — 
congratulating  him  on  his  escape  from  death. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  by  a far  brighter  light,  to  recognise  in  Doctor 
Manette,  intellectual  of  face  and  upright  of  bearing,  the  shoemaker  of  the  garret 
in  Paris.  Yet,  no  one  could  have  looked  at  him  twice,  without  looking  again  : 
even  though  the  opportunity  of  observation  had  not  extended  to  the  mournful 
cadence  of  his  low  grave  voice,  and  to  the  abstraction  that  overclouded  him 
fitfully,  without  any  apparent  reason.  While  one  external  cause,  and  that  a refer- 
ence to  his  long  lingering  agony,  would  always — as  on  the  trial — evoke  this  con- 
dition from  the  depths  of  his  soul,  it  was  also  in  its  nature  to  arise  of  itself,  and  to 
draw  a gloom  over  him,  as  incomprehensible  to  those  unacquainted  with  hi*  story 


Mr.  Stryver.  45 

as  if  they  had  seen  the  shadow  of  the  actual  Bastille  thrown  upon  him  by  a 
summer  sun,  when  the  substance  was  three  hundred  miles  away. 

Only  his  daughter  had  the  power  of  charming  this  black  brooding  from  his 
mind.  She  was  the  golden  thread  that  united  him  to  a Past  beyond  his  misery, 
and  to  a Present  beyond  his  misery : and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  light  of  her 
face,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  had  a strong  beneficial  influence  with  him  almost 
always.  Not  absolutely  always,  for  she  could  recall  some  occasions  on  which  her 
power  had  failed  ; but  they  were  few  and  slight,  and  she  believed  them  over. 

Mr.  Darnay  had  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  gratefully,  and  had  turned  to 
Mr.  Stryver,  whom  he  warmly  thanked.  Mr.  Stryver,  a man  of  little  more  than 
thirty,  but  looking  twenty  years  older  than  he  was,  stout,  loud,  red,  bluff,  and 
free  from  any  drawback  of  delicacy,  had  a pushing  way  of  shouldering  himself 
(morally  and  physically)  into  companies  and  conversations,  that  argued  well  fot 
his  shouldering  his  way  up  in  life. 

He  still  had  his  wig  and  gown  on,  and  he  said,  squaring  himself  at  his  late 
client  to  that  degree  that  he  squeezed  the  innocent  Mr.  Lorry  clean  out  of  the 
group  : “I  am  glad  to  have  brought  you  off  with  honour,  Mr.  Darnay.  It  was 
an  infamous  prosecution,  grossly  infamous ; but  not  the  less  likely  to  succeed  on 
that  account.” 

“You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  to  you  for  life — in  two  senses,”  said  his 
late  client,  taking  his  hand. 

“ I have  done  my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Darnay  f and  my  best  is  as  good  as  another 
man’s,  I believe.” 

It  clearly  being  incumbent  on  some  one  to  say,  “ Much  better,”  Mr.  Lorry  said 
it ; perhaps  not  quite  disinterestedly,  but  with  the  interested  object  of  squeezing 
himself  back  again. 

“You  think  so  ? ” said  Mr.  Stryver.  “Well ! you  have  been  present  all  day, 
and  you  ought  to  know.  You  are  a man  of  business,  too.” 

“And  as  such,”  quoth  Mr.  Lorry,  whom  the  counsel  learned  in  the  law  had 
now  shouldered  back  into  the  group,  just  as  he  had  previously  shouldered  him  out  of 
it — “as  such  I will  appeal  to  Doctor  Manette,  to  break  up  this  conference  and 
order  us  all  to  our  homes.  Miss  Lucie  looks  ill,  Mr.  Darnay  has  had  a terrible 
day,  we  are  worn  out.” 

“ Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver ; “I  have  a night’s  work  to  do 
yet.  Speak  for  yourself.” 

“ I speak  for  myself,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  “ and  for  Mr.  Darnay,  and  for  Miss 

Lucie,  and Miss  Lucie,  do  you  not  think  I may  speak  for  us  all  ? ” He  asked 

her  the  question  pointedly,  and  with  a glance  at  her  father. 

His  face  had  become  frozen,  as  it  were,  in  a very  curious  look  at  Darnay : an 
intent  look,  deepening  into  a frown  of  dislike  and  distrust,  not  even  unmixed  with 
fear.  With  this  strange  expression  on  him  his  thoughts  had  wandered  away. 

“ My  father,”  said  Lucie,  softly  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

He  slowly  shook  the  shadow  off,  and  turned  to  her. 

“ Shall  we  go  home,  my  father  ? ” 

With  a long  breath,  he  answered  “ Yes.” 

The  friends  of  the  acquitted  prisoner  had  dispersed,  under  the  impression — which 
he  himself  had  originated — that  he  would  not  be  released  that  night.  The  lights 
were  nearly  all  extinguished  in  the  passages,  the  iron  gates  were  being  closed  with  a 
jar  and  a rattle,  and  the  dismal  place  was  deserted  until  to-morrow  morning’s 
interest  of  gallows,  pillory,  whipping-post,  and  branding-iron,  should  re-people  it. 
Walking  between  her  father  and  Mr.  Darnay,  Lucie  Manette  passed  into  the  open 
air.  A hackney-coach  was  called,  and  the  father  and  daughter  departed  in  it. 

Mr.  Stryver  had  left  them  in  the  passages,  to  shoulder  his  way  back  to  the 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


4« 

robin g-room.  Another  person,  who  had  not  joined  the  group,  or  interchanged  a 
word  with  any  one  of  them,  but  who  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall  where  its 
shadow  was  darkest, *had  silently  strolled  out  after  the  rest,  and  had  looked  on  until 
the  coach  drove  away.  He  now  stepped  up  to  where  Mr.  Lorry  and  Mr.  Damay 
Stood  upon  the  pavement. 

“ So,  Mr.  Lorry ! Men  of  business  may  speak  to  Mr.  Darnay  now  ? ” 

Nobody  had  made  any  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Carton’s  part  in  the  day’s  pro- 
ceedings ; nobody  had  known  of  it.  He  was  unrobed,  and  was  none  the  bettei 
tor  it  in  appearance. 

“ If  you  knew  what  a conflict  goes  on  in  the  business  mind,  when  the  business 
mind  is  divided  between  good-natured  impulse  and  business  appearances,  you 
would  be  amused,  Mr.  Darnay.” 

Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  and  said,  warmly,  “ You  have  mentioned  that  before,  sir. 
We  men  of  business,  who  serve  a House,  are  not  our  own  masters.  We  have  to 
chink  of  the  House  more  than  ourselves.” 

“/  know,  / know,”  rejoined  Mr.  Carton,  carelessly.  “Don’t  be  nettled,  Mr. 
Lorry.  You  are  as  good  as  another,  I have  no  doubt:  better,  I dare  say.” 

“And  indeed,  sir,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  not  minding  him,  “ I really  don’t  know 
what  you  have  to  do  with  the  matter.  If  you’ll  excuse  me,  as  very  much  your 
elder,  for  saying  so,  I really  don’t  know  that  it  is  your  business.” 

“ Business  ! Bless  you,  / have  no  business,”  said  Mr.  Carton. 

“ It  is  a pity  you  have  not,  sir.” 

“ I think  so.  too.” 

“ If  you  had,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  “ perhaps  you  would  attend  to  it.” 

“ Lord  love  you,  no  ! — I shouldn’t,”  said  Mr.  Carton. 

“ Well,  sir  !”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  thoroughly  heated  by  his  indifference,  “business 
fe  a very  good  thing,  and  a very  respectable  thing.  And,  sir,  if  business  imposes 
/ts  restraints  and  its  silent es  and  impediments,  Mr.  Darnay  as  a young  gentleman 
of  generosity  knows  how  to  make  allowance  for  that  circumstance.  Mr.  Darnay, 
good  night,  God  bless  you,  sir  l I hope  you  have  been  this  day  preserved  for  a 
prosperous  and  happy  life. — Chair  there  ! ” 

Perhaps  a little  angry  with  himself,  as  well  as  with  the  barrister,  Mr.  Lorry 
bustled  into  the  chair,  and  was  carried  off  to  Tellson’s.  Carton,  who  smelt  of 
port  wine,  and  did  not  appear  to  be  quite  sober,  laughed  then,  and  turned  to 
Damay : 

“ This  is  a strange  chance  that  throws  you  and  me  together.  This  must  be  a 
strange  night  to  you,  standing  alone  here  with  your  counterpart  on  these  street 
atones  ?” 

“ I hardly  seem  yet,”  returned  Charles  Damay,  “ to  belong  to  this  world  again.” 
“I  don’t  wonder  at  it ; it’s  not  so  long  smce  you  were  pretty  far  advanced  on 
your  way  to  another.  You  speak  faintly.” 

“ I begin  to  think  I am  faint.” 

Then  why  the  devil  don’t  you  dine  ? 1 dined,  myself,  while  those  numskulls 

were  deliberating  which  world  you  should  belong  to — this,  or  some  other.  Let 
me  show  you  the  nearest  tavern  to  dine  well  at.” 

Drawing  his  arm  through  his  own,  he  took  him  down  Ludgate-hill  to  Fleet- 
street,  and  so,  up  a covered  way,  into  a tavern.  Here,  they  were  shown  into  a 
little  room,  where  Charles  Damay  was  soon  recruiting  his  strength  with  a good 
plain  dinner  and  good  wine  : while  Carton  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  same  table, 
with  his  separate  bottle  of  port  before  him,  and  his  fully  half-insolent  manner 
«pon  him. 

“ Do  you  feel,  yet,  that  you  belong  to  this  terrestiial  scheme  again,  Mr 

Darnay 


Charles  Darnay  and  hi  Double . 47 

<*  1 im  frightfully  ccnfused  regarding  time  and  place  ; but  I am  so  far  mended 
as  to  feel  that.” 

“ It  must  be  an  immense  satisfaction  ! ” 

He  said  it  bitterly,  and  filled  up  his  glass  again : which  was  a large  one. 

“ As  to  me,  the  greatest  desire  I have,  is  to  forget  that  I belong  to  it.  It  has  no 
good  in  it  for  me — except  wine  like  this — nor  I for  it.  So  we  are  not  much  alike 
in  that  particular.  Indeed,  I begin  to  think  we  are  not  much  alike  in  any  parti- 
cular, you  and  I.” 

Confused  by  the  emotion  of  the  day,  and  feeling  his  being  there  with  this  Double 
of  coarse  deportment,  to  be  like  a dream,  Charles  Darnay  was  at  a loss  how  to 
answer  ; finally,  answered  not  at  all. 

“ Now  your  dinner  is  done,”  Carton  presently  said,  “ why  don’t  you  call  a 
health,  Mr.  Darnay ; why  don’t  you  give  your  toast  ?” 

“ What  health  ? What  toast  ?” 

“ Why,  it’s  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  It  ought  to  be,  it  must  be,  I’ll  swear 
it’s  there.” 

“ Miss  Manette,  then  ! ” 

“ Miss  Manette,  then  ! ” 

Looking  his  companion  full  in  the  face  while  he  drank  the  toast,  Carton  flung 
his  glass  over  his  shoulder  against  the  wall,  where  it  shivered  to  pieces  ; then,  rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  in  another. 

“ That’s  a fair  young  lady  to  hand  to  a coach  in  the  dark,  Mr.  Darnay!  ” he 
said,  filling  his  new  goblet. 

A slight  frown  and  a laconic  “ Yes,”  were  the  answer. 

“That’s  a fair  young  lady  to  be  pitied  by  and  wept  for  by!  How  does  it 
feel  ? Is  it  worth  being  tried  for  one’s  life,  to  be  the  object  of  such  sympathy  and 
compassion,  Mr.  Darnay  ?” 

Again  Darnay  answered  not  a word. 

“ She  was  mightily  pleased  to  have  your  message,  when  I gave  it  her.  Not 
that  she  showed  she  was  pleased,  but  I suppose  she  was.” 

The  allusion  served  as  a timely  reminder  to  Darnay  that  this  disagreeable  com- 
panion had,  of  his  own  free  will,  assisted  him  in  the  strait  of  the  day.  He  turned 
the  dialogue  to  that  point,  and  thanked  him  for  it. 

4<  I neither  want  any  thanks,  nor  merit  any,”  was  the  careless  rejoinder.  “ It  was 
nothing  to  do,  in  the  first  place  ; and  I don’t  know  why  I did  it,  in  the  second. 
Mr.  Darnay,  let  me  ask  you  a question.” 

“ Willingly,  and  a small  return  for  your  good  offices.” 

“ Do  you  think  I particularly  like  you  ?” 

“Really,  Mr.  Carton,”  returned  the  other,  oddly  disconcerted,  “I  have  not 
asked  myself  the  question.” 

“ But  ask  yourself  the  question  now.” 

“You  have  acted  as  if  you  do  ; but  I don’t  think  you  do.” 

“ / don’t  think  I do,”  said  Carton.  “ I begin  to  have  a very  good  opinion  01 
your  understanding.” 

“Nevertheless,”  pursued  Darnay,  rising  to  ring  the  bell,  “ there  is  nothing  in 
that,  I hope,  to  prevent  my  calling  the  reckoning,  and  our  parting  without  ill-blood 
on  either  side.” 

Carton  rejoining,  “ Nothing  in  life  ! ” Darnay  rang.  “ Do  you  call  the  whole 
reckoning  ?”  said  Carton.  On  his  answering  in  the  affirmative,  “ Then  bring  me 
another  pint  of  this  same  wine,  drawer,  and  come  and  wake  me  at  ten.” 

The  bill  being  paid,  Charles  Darnay  rose  and  wished  him  good-night.  Without 
returning  the  wish,  Carton  rose  too,  with  something  of  a threat  of  defiance  ifl  hi? 
manner,  and  said,  “ A last  word,  M/e  Darnay  ; you  think  I m drunk  ?” 


48 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


u I think  you  have  been  drinking,  Mr.  Carton.” 

“ Think  ? You  know  I have  been  drinking.*’ 

“ Since  I must  say  so,  I know  it.’* 

“ Then  you  shall  likewise  know  why.  I am  a disappointed  drudge,  sir.  I care 
for  no  man  on  earth,  and  no  man  on  earth  cares  for  me.” 

“ Much  to  be  regretted.  You  might  have  used  your  talents  better.” 

“ May  be  so,  Mr.  Darnay ; may  be  not.  Don’t  let  your  sober  face  elate  you, 
however ; you  don’t  know  what  it  may  come  to.  Good  night ! ” 

When  he  was  left  alone,  this  strange  being  took  up  a candle,  went  to  a glass 
that  hung  against  the  wall,  and  surveyed  himself  minutely  in  it. 

“Do  you  particularly  like  the  man?”  he  muttered,  at  his  own  image  ; “ why 
should  you  particularly  like  a man  who  resembles  you  ? There  is  nothing  in  you 
to  like  ; you  know  that.  Ah,  confound  you  ! What  a change  you  have  made  in 
yourself ! A good  reason  for  taking  to  a man,  that  he  shows  you  what  you  have 
fallen  away  from,  and  what  you  might  have  been  ! Change  places  wTith  him,  and 
would  you  have  been  looked  at  by  those  blue  eyes  as  he  was,  and  commiserated 
by  that  agitated  face  as  he  was  ? Come  on,  and  have  it  out  in  plain  words  ! You 
hate  the  fellow.” 

He  resorted  to  his  pint  of  wine  for  consolation,  drank  it  all  in  a few  minutes, 
and  fell  asleep  on  his  arms,  with  his  hair  straggling  over  the  table,  and  a long 
winding-sheet  in  the  candle  dripping  down  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  JACKAL. 

Those  were  drinking  days,  and  most  men  drank  hard.  So  very  great  is  the 
Improvement  Time  has  brought  about  in  such  habits,  that  a moderate  statement 
of  the  quantity  of  wine  and  punch  which  one  man  would  swallow  in  the  course  of 
a night,  without  any  detriment  to  his  reputation  as  a perfect  gentleman,  would 

seem,  in  these  days,  a ridiculous  exaggeration.  The  learned  profession  of  the  law  was 
certainly  not  behind  any  other  learned  profession  in  its  Bacchanalian  propensities  ; 
neither  was  Mr.  Stryver,  already  fast  shouldering  his  way  to  a large  and  lucrative 
practice,  behind  his  compeers  in  this  particular,  any  more  than  in  the  drier  parts 
of  the  legal  race. 

A favourite  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  eke  at  the  Sessions,  Mr.  Stryver  had  begun 
cautiously  to  hew  away  the  lower  staves  of  the  ladder  on  which  he  mounted. 
Sessions  and  Old  Bailey  had  now  to  summon  their  favourite,  specially,  to  their 
longing  arms  ; and  shouldering  itself  towards  the  visage  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
in  the  Court  of  King’s  Bench,  the  florid  countenance  of  Mr.  Stryver  might  be  daily 

seen,  bursting  out  of  the  bed  of  wigs,  like  a great  sunflower  pushing  its  way  at  the 
sun  from  among  a rank  gardenfull  of  flaring  companions. 

It  had  once  been  noted  at  the  Bar,  that  while  Mr.  Stryver  was  a glib  man,  and 
an  unscrupulous,  and  a ready,  and  a bold,  he  had  not  that  faculty  of  extracting 
the  essence  from  a heap  of  statements,  which  is  among  the  most  striking  and 
necessary  of  the  advocate’s  accomplishments.  But,  a remarkable  improvement 
came  upon  him  as  to  this.  The  more  business  he  got,  the  greater  his  power 
seemed  to  grow  of  getting  at  its  pith  and  marrow ; and  however  late  at  night  he 
sat  carousing  with  Sydney  Carton,  he  always  had  his  points  at  his  fingers’  ends  in 
♦be  morning. 

Sydney  Carton,  idlest  and  most  unpromising  of  men,  was  Stryver’s  great  ally. 


Mr.  Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton . 


4S 


What  the  two  drank  together,  between  Hilary  Term  and  Michaelmas,  might  have 
floated  a king’s  ship.  Stryver  never  had  a case  in  hand,  anywhere,  but  Carton 
was  there,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court ; they 
went  the  same  Circuit,  and  even  there  they  prolonged  their  usual  orgies  late  into 
the  night,  and  Carton  was  rumoured  to  be  seen  at  broad  day,  going  home  stealthily 
and  unsteadily  to  his  lodgings,  like  a dissipated  cat.  At  last,  it  began  to  get  about, 
among  such  as  were  interested  in  the  matter,  that  although  Sydney  Carton  would 
never  be  a lion,  he  was  an  amazingly  good  jackal,  and  that  he  rendered  suit  and 
service  to  Stryver  in  that  humble  capacity. 

“ Ten  o’clock,  sir,”  said  the  man  at  the  tavern,  whom  he  had  charged  to  wake 
him — “ ten  o’clock,  sir.” 

“ Whafs  the  matter  ?’* 

“ Ten  o’clock,  sir.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? Ten  o’clock  at  night  ?* 

“ Yes,  sir.  Your  honour  told  me  to  call  you.” 

“ Oh ! I remember.  Very  well,  very  well.” 

After  a few  dull  efforts  to  get  to  sleep  again,  which  the  man  dexterously  com- 
bated by  stirring  the  fire  continuously  for  five  minutes,  he  got  up,  tossed  his  hat 
on,  and  walked  out.  He  turned  into  the  Temple,  and,  having  revived  himself  by 
twice  pacing  the  pavements  of  King’s  Bench-walk  and  Paper-buildings,  turned 
into  the  Stryver  chambers. 

The  Stryver  clerk,  who  never  assisted  at  these  conferences,  had  gone  home,  and 
the  Stryver  principal  opened  the  door.  Re  had  his  slippers  on,  and  a loose  bed- 
gown, and  his  throat  was  bare  for  his  greater  ease.  He  had  that  rather  wild, 
strained,  seared  marking  about  the  eyes,  which  may  be  observed  in  all  free  livers 
of  his  class,  from  the  portrait  of  Jeffries  downward,  and  which  can  be  traced,  under 
various  disguises  of  Art,  through  the  portraits  of  ev^ry  Drinking  Age. 

“ You  are  a little  late,  Memory,”  said  Stryver. 

“About  the  usual  time  ; it  may  be  a quarter  of  an  hour  later.” 

They  went  into  a dingy  room  lined  with  books  and  littered  with  papers,  where 
there  was  a blazing  fire.  A kettle  steamed  upon  the  hob,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
wreck  of  papers  i table  shone,  with  plenty  of  wine  up^n  it,  and  brandy,  and  rum, 
and  sugar  and  Hmons. 

“You  have  had  your  bottle,  I perceive,  Sydney.” 

“Two  to-night,  I think.  I have  been  dining  with  the  day’s  client;  or  seeing 
him  dine — it’s  all  one  ! ” 

“ That  was  a rare  point,  Sydney,  that  you  brought  tc  bear  upon  the  identification. 
How  did  you  come  by  it  ? When  did  it  strike  you  ? 

“ I thought  he  was  rather  a handsome  fellow,  and  I thought  I should  have  been 
much  the  same  sort  of  fellow,  if  I had  had  any  luck.” 

Mr.  Stryver  laughed  till  he  sliook  his  precocious  paunch. 

“ You  and  your  luck,  Sydney ! Get  to  work,  get  to  work.” 

Sullenly  enough,  the  jackal  loosened  his  dress,  went  into  an  adjoining  room, 
and  came  back  with  a large  jug  of  cold  water,  a basin,  and  a towel  or  two. 
Steeping  the  towels  in  the  water,  and  partially  wringing  them  out,  he  folded  them 
on  his  head  in  a manner  hideous  to  behold,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  said,  “Now 
I am  ready ! ” 

“Not  much  boiling  down  to  be  done  to-night,  Memory,”  said  Mi,  Stryver 
gaily,  as  he  looked  among  his  papers. 

“How  much?” 

“ Only  two  sets  of  them.” 

“ Give  me  the  worst  first.” 

“ There  they  are,  Sydney.  Fire  away ! ” 

F 


5° 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


The  lion  then  composed  himself  on  his  back  on  a sofa  on  one  side  of  the 
drinking-table,  while  the  jackal  sat  at  his  own  paper-bestrewn  table  proper,  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  with  the  bottles  and  glasses  ready  to  his  hand.  Both  resorted  tc 
the  drinking- table  without  stint,  but  each  in  a different  way ; the  lion  for  the  most 
part  reclining  with  his  hands  in  his  waistband,  looking  at  the  fire,  or  occasionally 
flirting  with  some  lighter  document ; the  jackal,  with  knitted  brows  and  intent  face, 
so  deep  in  his  task,  that  his  eyes  did  not  even  follow  the  hand  he  stretched  out  foi 
his  glass — which  often  groped  about,  for  a minute  or  more,  before  it  found  the 
glass  for  his  lips.  Two  or  three  times,  the  matter  in  hand  became  so  knotty,  that 
the  jackal  found  it  imperative  on  him  to  get  up,  and  steep  his  towels  anew.  From 
these  pilgrimages  to  the  jug  and  basin,  he  returned  with  such  eccentricities  of  damp 
head-gear  as  no  words  can  describe  ; which  were  made  the  more  ludicrous  by  his 
anxious  gravity. 

At  length  the  jackal  had  got  together  a compact  repast  for  the  lion,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  offer  it  to  him.  The  lion  took  it  with  care  and  caution,  made  his 
selections  from  it,  and  his  remarks  upon  it,  and  the  jackal  assisted  both.  When 
the  repast  was  fulJy  discussed,  the  lion  put  his  hands  in  his  waistband  again,  and 
lay  down  to  meditate.  The  jackal  then  invigorated  himself  with  a bumper  for  his 
throttle,  and  a fresh  application  to  his  head,  and  applied  himself  to  the  collection 
of  a second  meal ; this  was  administered  to  the  lion  in  the  same  manner,  and  was 
not  disposed  of  until  the  clocks  struck  three  in  the  morning. 

“ And  now  we  have  done,  Sydney,  fill  a bumper  of  punch,”  said  Mr.  Stryver. 

"The  jackal  removed  the  towels  from  his  head,  which  had  been  steaming  again, 
shook  himself,  yawned,  shivered,  and  complied. 

“You  were  very  sound,  Sydney,  in  the  matter  of  those  crown  witnesses  to-day. 
Every  question  told.” 

“ I always  am  sound  ; am  I not  ?” 

“ I don’t  gainsay  it.  What  has  roughened  your  temper  ? Put  some  punch  to 
it  and  smooth  it  again.” 

With  a deprecatory  grunt,  the  jackal  again  complied. 

“The  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School,”  said  Stryver,  nodding  his 
head  over  him  as  he  reviewed  him  in  the  present  and  the  past,  “ the  old  seesaw 
Sydney.  Up  one  minute  and  down  the  next ; now  in  spirits  and  now  in  despon- 
dency ! ” 

“ Ah  !”  returned  the  other,  sighing  : “ yes  ! The  same  Sydney,  with  the  same 
luck.  Even  then,  I did  exercises  for  other  boys,  and  seldom  did  my  own.” 

“ And  why  not  ? ” 

“ God  knows.  It  was  my  way,  I suppose.” 

He  sat,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  stretched  out  before  him, 
looking  at  the  fire. 

“ Carton,”  said  his  friend,  squaring  himself  at  him  with  a bullying  air,  as  if  the 
fire-grate  had  been  the  furnace  in  which  sustained  endeavour  was  forged,  and  the 
one  delicate  thing  to  be  done  for  the  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbuiy  School 
was  to  shoulder  him  into  it,  “your  way  is,  and  always  was,  a lame  way.  You 
summon  no  energy  and  purpose.  Look  at  me.” 

“ Oh,  botheration  ! ” returned  Sydney,  with  a lighter  and  more  good-humoured 
laugh,  “ don’t  you  be  moral ! ” 

“How  have  I done  what  I have  done  ?”  said  Stryver ; “how  do  I do  what  I 
do  ? ” 

“ Partly  through  paying  me  to  help  you,  I suppose.  But  it’s  not  worth  youi 
while  to  apostrophise  me,  or  the  air,  about  it ; what  you  want  to  do,  you  do.  You 
were  always  in  the  front  rank,  and  I was  always  behind.” 

“ I had  to  get  into  the  front  rank  ; I was  not  born  there,  was  I ?” 


Over  a bumper  of  Punch . 


5* 


41 1 was  not  present  at  the  ceremony ; but  my  opinion  is  you  were,”  said  Carton, 
At  this,  he  laughed  again,  and  Jhey  both  laughed. 

“ Before  Shrewsbury,  and  at  Shrewsbury,  and  ever  since  Shrewsbury,”  pursued 
Carton,  “you  have  fallen  into  your  rank,  and  I have  fallen  into  mine.  Even  when 
we  were  fellow-students  in  the  Student-Quarter  of  Paris,  picking  up  French,  and 
French  law,  and  other  French  crumbs  that  we  didn’t  get  much  good  of,  you  were 
always  somewhere,  and  I was  always — nowhere.” 

44  And  whose  fault  was  that  ? ” 

44  Upon  my  soul,  I am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  yours.  You  were  always  driving 
and  riving  and  shouldering  and  pressing,  to  that  restless  degree  that  I had  no 
chance  for  my  life  but  in  rust  and  repose.  It’s  a gloomy  thing,  however,  to  talk 
about  one’s  own  past,  with  the  day  breaking.  Turn  me  in  some  other  direction 
before  I go.” 

“ Well  then  ! Pledge  me  to  the  pretty  witness,”  said  Stryver,  holding  up  his 
glass.  “ Are  you  turned  in  a pleasant  direction  ?” 

Apparently  not,  for  he  became  gloomy  again. 

“ Pretty  witness,”  he  muttered,  looking  down  into  his  glass.  44 1 have  had 
enough  of  witnesses  to-day  and  to-night ; who’s  your  pretty  witness  ?” 

44  The  picturesque  doctor’s  daughter,  Miss  Manette.” 

“ She  pretty  ? ” 

* * Is  she  not  ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Why,  man  alive,  she  was  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court ! 99 
44  Rot  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court ! Who  made  the  Old  Bailey  a judge 
of  beauty  ? She  was  a golden-haired  doll ! ” 

“ Do  you  know,  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  looking  at  him  with  sharp  eyes, 
and  slowly  drawing  a hand  across  his  florid  face  : “do  you  know,  I rather  thought, 
at  the  time,  that  you  sympathised  with  the  golden-haired  doll,  and  were  quick  to 
see  what  happened  to  the  golden-haired  doll  ? ” 

“ Quick  to  see  what  happened  ! If  a girl,  doll  or  no  doll,  swoons  within  a yard 
or  two  of  a man’s  nose,  he  can  see  it  without  a perspective-glass.  I pledge  you, 
but  I deny  the  beauty.  And  now  I’ll  have  no  more  drink  ; I’ll  get  to  bed.” 
When  his  host  followed  him  out  on  the  staircase  with  a candle,  to  light  him 
down  the  stairs,  the  day  was  coldly  looking  in  through  its  grimy  windows.  When 
he  got  out  of  the  house,  the  air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  sky  overcast,  the  river 
dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a lifeless  desert.  And  wreaths  of  dust  were 
spinning  round  and  round  before  the  morning  blast,  as  if  the  desert-sand  had 
risen  far  away,  and  the  first  spray  of  it  in  its  advance  had  begun  to  overwhelm  the 
city. 

Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a desert  all  around,  this  man  stood  still  on  his 
way  across  a silent  terrace,  and  saw  for  a moment,  lying  in  the  wilderness  before 
him,  a mirage  of  honourable  ambition,  self-denial,  and  perseverance.  In  the  fair 
city  of  this  vision,  there  were  airy  galleries  from  which  the  loves  and  graces  looked 
upon  him,  gardens  in  which  the  fruits  of  life  hung  ripening,  waters  of  Hope  that 
sparkled  in  his  sight.  A moment,  and  it  was  gone.  Climbing  to  a high  chamber 
in  a well  of  houses,  he  threw  himself  down  in  his  clothes  on  a neglected  bed,  and 
its  pillow  was  wet  with  wasted  tears. 

Sadly,  sadly,  the  sun  rose  ; it  rose  upon  no  sadder  sight  than  the  man  of  good 
abilities  and  good  emotions,  incapable  of  their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his 
own  help  and  his  own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on  him,  and  resigning 
himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 


5* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HUNDREDS  OF  PEOPLE. 

The  quiet  lodgings  of  Doctor  Manette  were  in  a quiet  street-comer  not  far  from 
Soho-square.  On  the  afternoon  of  a certain  fine  Sunday  when  the  waves  of  four 
months  had  rolled  over  the  trial  for  treason,  and  carried  it,  as  to  the  public  interest 
and  memory,  far  out  to  sea,  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  walked  along  the  sunny  streets  from 
Clerkenwell  where  he  lived,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the  Doctor.  After  several 
relapses  into  business-absorption,  Mr.  Lorry  had  become  the  Doctor’s  friend,  and 
the  quiet  street-corner  was  the  sunny  part  of  his  life. 

On  this  certain  fine  Sunday,  Mr.  Lorry  walked  towards  Soho,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  for  three  reasons  of  habit.  Firstly,  because,  on  fine  Sundays,  he  often 
walked  out,  before  dinner,  with  the  Doctor  and  Lucie ; secondly,  because,  on  un- 
favourable Sundays,  he  was  accustomed  to  be  with  them  as  the  family  friend, 
talking,  reading,  looking  out  of  window,  and  generally  getting  through  the  day; 
thirdly,  because  he  happened  to  have  his  own  little  shrewd  doubts  to  solve,  and 
knew  how  the  ways  of  the  Doctor’s  household  pointed  to  that  time  as  a likely  time 
for  solving  them. 

A quainter  corner  than  the  comer  where  the  Doctor  lived,  was  not  to  be  found 
in  London.  There  was  no  way  through  it,  and  the  front  windows  of  the  Doctor’s 
lodgings  commanded  a pleasant  little  vista  of  street  that  had  a congenial  air  of 
retirement  on  it.  There  were  few  buildings  then,  north  of  the  Oxford-road,  and 
forest-trees  flourished,  and  wild  flowers  grew,  and  the  hawthorn  blossomed,  in  the 
now  vanished  fields.  As  a consequence,  country  airs  circulated  in  Soho  with 
rigorous  freedom,  instead  of  languishing  into  the  parish  like  stray  paupers  without 
a settlement ; and  there  was  many  a good  south  wall,  not  far  off,  on  which  the 
peaches  ripened  in  their  season. 

The  summer  light  struck  into  the  comer  brilliantly  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
day  ; but,  when  the  streets  grew  hot,  the  corner  was  in  shadow,  though  not  in 
shadow  so  remote  but  that  you  could  see  beyond  it  into  a glare  of  brightness.  It 
was  a cool  spot,  staid  but  cheerful,  a wonderful  place  for  echoes,  and  a very 
harbour  from  the  raging  streets. 

There  ought  to  have  been  a tranquil  bark  in  such  an  anchorage,  and  there  was. 
The  Doctor  occupied  two  floors  of  a large  still  house,  where  several  callings  pur- 
ported to  be  pursued  by  day,  but  whereof  little  was  audible  any  day,  and  which  was 
shunned  by  all  of  them  at  night.  In  a building  at  the  back,  attainable  by  a court-yard 
where  a plane-tree  rustled  its  green  leaves,  church-organs  claimed  to  be  made,  and 
silver  to  be  chased,  and  likewise  gold  to  be  beaten  by  some  mysterious  giant  who 
had  a golden  arm  starting  out  of  the  wall  of  the  front  hall — as  if  he  had  beaten  him- 
self precious,  and  menaced  a similar  conversion  of  all  visitors.  Very  little  of  these 
trades,  or  of  a lonely  lodger  rumoured  to  live  up-stairs,  or  of  a dim  coach-trimming 
maker  asserted  to  have  a counting-house  below,  was  ever  heard  or  seen.  Occa- 
sionally, a stray  workman  putting  his  coat  on,  traversed  the  hall,  or  a stranger 
peered  about  there,  or  a distant  clink  was  heard  across  the  court-yard,  or  a thump 
from  the  golden  giant.  These,  however,  were  only  the  exceptions  required  to 
prove  the  rule  that  the  sparrows  in  the  plane-tree  behind  the  house,  and  the 
echoes  in  the  corner  before  it,  had  their  own  w^ay  from  Sunday  morning  unto 
S'  turday  night. 

Doctor  Manette  received  such  patients  here  as  his  old  reputation,  and  its  revival 
v the  floating  whispers  of  his  story,  brought  him.  His  scientific  knowledge,  and 


Doctor  Manette  s Lodgings . 


53 


his  vigilance  and  skill  in  conducting  ingenious  experiments,  brought  him  other- 
wise into  moderate  request,  and  he  earned  as  much  as  he  wanted. 

These  things  were  within  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry’s  knowledge,  thoughts,  and  notice, 
when  he  rang  the  door-bell  of  the  tranquil  house  in  the  comer,  on  the  fine  Sunday 
afternoon. 

“ Doctor  Manette  at  home  ? " 

Expected  home. 

“ Miss  Lucie  at  home  ? ” 

Expected  home. 

“ Miss  Pross  at  home  ? ” 

Possibly  at  home,  but  of  a certainty  impossible  for  hand-maid  to  anticipate 
intentions  of  Miss  Pross,  as  to  admission  or  denial  of  the  fact. 

“As  I am  at  home  myself,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ I’ll  go  up-stairs.” 

Although  the  Doctor’s  daughter  had  known  nothing  of  the  country  of  her  birth, 
she  appeared  to  have  innately  derived  from  it  that  ability  to  make  much  of  little 
means,  which  is  one  of  its  most  useful  and  most  agreeable  characteristics.  Simple 
as  the  furniture  was,  it  was  set  off  by  so  many  little  adornments,  of  no  value  but 
for  their  taste  and  fancy,  that  its  effect  was  delightful.  The  disposition  of  every- 
thing in  the  rooms,  from  the  largest  object  to  the  least ; the  arrangement  of 
colours,  the  elegant  variety  and  contrast  obtained  by  thrift  in  trifles,  by  delicate 
hands,  clear  eyes,  and  good  sense  ; were  at  once  so  pleasant  in  themselves,  ana 
so  expressive  of  their  originator,  that,  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  looking  about  him,  the 
very  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  ask  him,  with  something  of  that  peculiar  expres- 
sion which  he  knew  so  well  by  this  time,  whether  he  approved  ? 

There  were  three  rooms  on  a floor,  and,  the  doors  by  which  they  communicated 
being  put  open  that  the  air  might  pass  freely  through  them  all,  Mr.  Lorry, 
smilingly  observant  of  that  fanciful  resemblance  which  he  detected  all  around 
him,  walked  from  one  to  another.  The  first  was  the  best  room,  and  in  it  were 
Lucie’s  birds,  and  flowers,  and  books,  and  desk,  and  work-table,  and  box  of 
water-colours  ; the  second  was  the  Doctor’s  consulting-room,  used  also  as  the 
dining-room  ; the  third,  changingly  speckled  by  the  rustle  of  the  plane-tree  in  the 
yard,  was  the  Doctor’s  bed-room,  and  there,  in  a corner,  stood  the  disused  shoe- 
maker’s bench  and  tray  of  tools,  much  as  it  had  stood  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the 
dismal  house  by  the  wine-shop,  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine  in  Paris. 

“ I wonder,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pausing  in  his  looking  about,  “ that  he  keeps  that 
reminder  of  his  sufferings  about  him  ! ” 

“ And  why  wonder  at  that  ?”  was  the  abrupt  inquiry  that  made  him  start. 

It  proceeded  from  Miss  Pross,  the  wild  red  woman,  strong  of  hand,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  first  made  at  the  Royal  George  Hotel  at  Dover,  and  had 
since  improved. 

“ I should  have  thought ” Mr.  Lorry  began. 

“ Pooh  ! You’d  have  thought ! ” said  Miss  Pross ; arid  Mr.  Lorry  left  off. 

“ How  do  you  do  ?”  inquired  that  lady  then — sharply,  and  yet  as  if  to  express 
that  she  bore  him  no  malice. 

“Iam  pretty  well,  I thank  you,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  with  meekness  ; “ how 
are  you  ?” 

“ Nothing  to  boast  of,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“ Indeed  ?” 

“ Ah ! indeed ! ” said  Miss  Pross.  “Iam  very  much  put  out  about  my  Ladyl  ird.” 

“ Indeed  ?” 

“ For  gracious  sake  say  something  else  besides  * indeed,’  or  you’ll  fidget  me 
ireath,”  said  Miss  Pross  : whose  character  ^dissociated  from  stature)  was  shortness; 

“ Really,  then  ?”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  an  amendment. 


54 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ Really,  is  bad  enough,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “ but  better.  Yes,  I am  very 
much  put  out.” 

“ May  I ask  the  cause  ?” 

“ I don’t  want  dozens  of  people  who  are  not  at  all  worthy  of  Ladybird,  to  come 
here  looking  after  her,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“Do  dozens  come  for  that  purpose  ?” 

“ Hundreds,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  lady  (as  of  some  other  people  before  her  time  and 
since)  that  whenever  her  original  proposition  was  questioned,  she  exaggerated  it. 

“ Dear  me  !”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  the  safest  remark  he  could  think  of. 

“ I have  lived  with  the  darling — or  the  darling  has  lived  with  me,  and  paid  me 
for  it ; which  she  certainly  should  never  have  done,  you  may  take  your  affidavit, 
if  I could  have  afforded  to  keep  either  myself  or  her  for  nothing — since  she  was 
ten  years  old.  And  it’s  really  very  hard,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

Not  seeing  with  precision  what  was  very  hard,  Mr.  Lorry  shook  his  head  ; 
using  that  important  part  of  himself  as  a sort  of  fairy  cloak  that  would  fit  any- 
thing. 

“All  sorts  of  people  who  are  not  in  the  least  degree  worthy  of  the  pet,  are 
always  turning  up,”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ When  you  began  it ” 

“I  began  it,  Miss  Pross  ?” 

“ Didn’t  you  ? Who  brought  her  father  to  life  ?” 

“ Oh ! If  that  was  beginning  it ” said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ It  wasn’t  ending  it,  I suppose  ? I say,  when  you  began  it,  it  was  hard 
enough  ; not  that  I have  any  fault  to  find  with  Doctor  Manette,  except  that  he  is 
not  worthy  of  such  a daughter,  which  is  no  imputation  on  him,  for  it  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  anybody  should  be,  under  any  circumstances.  But  it  really  is 
doubly  and  trebly  hard  to  have  crowds  and  multitudes  of  people  turning  up  after 
him  (I  could  have  forgiven  him),  to  take  Ladybird’s  affections  away  from  me.” 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  be  very  jealous,  but  he  also  knew  her  by  this 
time  to  be,  beneath  the  service  of  her  eccentricity,  one  of  those  unselfish  creatures 
— found  only  among  women — who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admiration,  bind  them- 
selves willing  slaves,  to  youth  when  they  have  lost  it,  to  beauty  that  they  never 
had,  to  accomplishments  that  they  were  never  fortunate  enough  to  gain,  to  bright 
hopes  that  never  shone  upon  their  own  sombre  lives.  He  knew  enough  of  the 
world  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  better  than  the  faithful  service  of  the 
heart ; so  rendered  and  so  free  from  any  mercenaiy  taint,  he  had  such  an  exalted 
respect  for  it,  that  in  the  retributive  arrangements  made  by  his  own  mind — we  all 
make  such  arrangements,  more  or  less  —he  stationed  Miss  Pross  much  nearer  to 
the  lower  Angels  chan  many  ladies  immeasurably  better  got  up  both  by  Nature 
and  Art,  who  had  balances  at  Tellson’s. 

“There  never  was,  nor  will  be,  but  one  man  worthy  of  Ladybird,”  said  Miss 
Pross  ; “and  that  was  my  brother  Solomon,  if  he  hadn’t  made  a mistake  in  life.” 

Here  again : Mr.  Lorry’s  inquiries  into  Miss  Pross’s  personal  history  had  esta- 
blished the  fact  that  her  brother  Solomon  was  a heartless  scoundrel  who  had 
stripped  her  of  everything  she  possessed,  as  a stake  to  speculate  with,  and  had 
abandoned  her  in  her  poverty  for  evermore,  with  no  touch  of  compunction.  Miss 
Pross’s  fidelity  of  belief  in  Solomon  (deducting  a mere  trifle  for  this  slight  mis- 
take) was  quite  a seiious  matter  with  Mr.  Lorry,  and  had  its  weight  in  his  good 
opinion  of  her. 

“ As  we  happen  to  be  alone  for  the  moment,  and  are  both  people  of  business,” 
he  said,  when  they  had  got  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  had  sat  down  there  in 
friendly  relations,  “ let  me  ask  you — does  the  Doctor,  in  talking  with  Lucie  nevel 
veler  to  the  shoemaking  time,  yet  ?” 


Miss  Pross  and  Mr . Lorry . 


55 


44  Never/* 

4 And  yet  keeps  that  bench  and  those  tools  beside  him  ?** 

44  Ah !”  returned  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.  44  But  I don’t  say  he  don’t 
refer  to  it  within  himself.” 

44  Do  you  believe  that  he  thinks  of  it  much  ?*’ 

44 1 do,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

44  Do  you  imagine ” Mr.  Lorry  had  begun,  when  Miss  Pross  took  him  up 

short  with : 

44  Never  imagine  anything.  Have  no  imagination  at  all.” 

44 1 stand  corrected  ; do  you  suppose — you  go  so  far  as  to  suppose,  sometimes  ?* 
44  Now  and  then,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

44  Do  you  suppose,”  Mr.  Lorry  went  on,  with  a laughing  twinkle  in  his  bright 
eye,  as  it  looked  kindly  at  her,  “that  Doctor  Manette  has  any  theory  of  his  own, 
preserved  through  all  those  years,  relative  to  the  cause  of  his  being  so  oppressed  ; 
perhaps,  even  to  the  name  of  his  oppressor  ?” 

44 1 don’t  suppose  anything  about  it  but  what  Ladybird  tells  me.’* 

44  And  that  is ?” 

44  That  she  thinks  he  has.” 

44  Now  don’t  be  angry  at  my  asking  all  these  questions ; because  I am  a mere 
dull  man  of  business,  and  you  are  a woman  of  business.” 

44  Dull  ?”  Miss  Pross  inquired,  with  placidity. 

Rather  wishing  his  modest  adjective  away,  Mr.  Lorry  replied,  44  No,  no,  no. 
Surely  not.  To  return  to  business  : — Is  it  not  remarkable  that  Doctor  Manette, 
unquestionably  innocent  of  any  crime  as  we  are  all  well  assured  he  is,  should  never 
touch  upon  that  question  ? I will  not  say  with  me,  though  he  had  business  rela- 
tions with  me  many  years  ago,  and  we  are  now  intimate ; I will  say  with  the 
fair  daughter  to  whom  he  is  so  devotedly  attached,  and  who  is  so  devotedly 
attached  to  him  ? Believe  me,  Miss  Pross,  I don’t  approach  the  topic  with  you, 
out  of  curiosity,  but  out  of  zealous  interest.” 

44  Well ! To  the  best  of  my  understanding,  and  bad’s  the  best,  you’ll  tell  me,” 
said  Miss  Pross,  softened  by  the  tone  of  the  apology,  44  he  is  afraid  of  the  whole 
subject.” 

44  Afraid  ?” 

44  It’s  plain  enough,  I should  think,  why  he  may  be.  It’s  a dreadful  remem- 
brance. Besides  that,  his  loss  of  himself  grew  out  of  it.  Not  knowing  how  he 
Jost  himself,  or  how  he  recovered  himself,  he  may  never  feel  certain  of  not  losing 
himself  again.  That  alone  wouldn’t  make  the  subject  pleasant,  I should  think.” 
It  was  a profounder  remark  than  Mr.  Lorry  had  looked  for.  44  True,”  said  he, 
44  and  fearful  to  reflect  upon.  Yet,  a doubt  lurks  in  my  mind,  Miss  Pross,  whether 
it  is  good  for  Doctor  Manette  to  have  that  suppression  always  shut  up  within  him. 
Indeed,  it  is  this  doubt  and  the  uneasiness  it  sometimes  causes  me  that  has  led 
me  to  our  present  confidence.” 

44  Can’t  be  helped,”  said  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.  44  Touch  that  string, 
and  he  instantly  changes  for  the  worse.  Better  leave  it  alone.  In  short,  must 
leave  it  alone,  like  or  no  like.  Sometimes,  he  gets  up  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
and  will  be  heard,  by  us  overhead  there,  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and 
down,  in  his  room.  Ladybird  has  learnt  to  know  then  that  his  mind  is  walking 
up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in  his  old  prison.  She  hurries  to  him,  and 
they  go  on  together,  walking  up  and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  until  he  is 
composed.  But  he  never  says  a word  of  the  true  reason  of  his  restlessness,  to 
her,  and  she  finds  it  best  not  to  hint  at  it  to  him.  In  silence  they  go  walking  up 
and  down  together,  walking  up  and  down  together,  till  her  love  and  company 
have  brought  him  to  himself.” 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


51 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Pross’s  denial  of  her  own  imagination,  there  was  a 
perception  of  the  pain  of  being  monotonously  haunted  by  one  sad  idea,  in  her 
repetition  of  the  phrase,  walking  up  and  down,  which  testified  to  her  possessing 
such  a thing. 

The  corner  has  been  mentioned  as  a wonderful  corner  for  echoes  ; it  had  begun 
to  echo  so  resoundingly  to  the  tread  of  coming  feet,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the. 
very  mention  of  that  weary  pacing  to  and  fro  had  set  it  going. 

“ Here  they  are  !”  said  Miss  Pross,  rising  to  break  up  the  conference;  “and 
now  we  shall  have  hundreds  of  people  pretty  soon  !” 

It  was  such  a curious  corner  in  its  acoustical  properties,  such  a peculiar  Ear  of 
a place,  that  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  at  the  open  window,  looking  for  the  father  and 
daughter  whose  steps  he  heard,  he  fancied  they  would  never  approach.  Not  only 
would  the  echoes  die  away,  as  though  the  steps  had  gone ; but,  echoes  of  other 
steps  that  never  came  would  be  heard  in  their  stead,  and  would  die  away  for  good 
when  they  seemed  close  at  hand.  However,  father  and  daughter  did  at  last 
appear,  and  Miss  Pross  was  ready  at  the  street  door  to  receive  them. 

Miss  Pross  was  a pleasant  sight,  albeit  wild,  and  red,  and  grim,  taking  off  her 
darling’s  bonnet  when  she  came  up-stairs,  and  touching  it  up  with  the  ends  of  her 
handkerchief,  and  blowing  the  dust  off  it,  and  folding  her  mantle  ready  for  lay- 
ing by,  and  smoothing  her  rich  hair  with  as  much  pride  as  she  could  possibly 
have  taken  in  her  own  hair  if  she  had  been  the  vainest  and  handsomest  of  women. 
Her  darling  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  embracing  her  and  thanking  her,  and  protest- 
ing against  her  taking  so  much  trouble  for  her — which  last  she  only  dared  to  do 
playfully,  or  Miss  Pross,  sorely  hurt,  would  have  retired  to  her  own  chamber  and 
cried.  The  Doctor  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  looking  on  at  them,  and  telling  Miss 
Pross  how  she  spoilt  Lucie,  in  accents  and  with  eyes  that  had  as  much  spoiling  in 
them  as  Miss  Pross  had,  and  would  have  had  more  if  it  were  possible.  Mr. 
Lorry  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  beaming  at  all  this  in  his  little  wig,  and  thanking 
his  bachelor  stars  for  having  lighted  him  in  his  declining  years  to  a Home.  But, 
no  Hundreds  of  people  came  to  see  the  sights,  and  Mr.  Lorry  looked  in  vain  for 
the  fulfilment  of  Miss  Pross’s  prediction. 

Dinner-time,  and  still  no  Hundreds  of  people.  In  the  arrangements  of  the 
little  household,  Miss  Pross  took  charge  of  the  lower  regions,  and  always  acquitted 
herself  marvellously.  Her  dinners,  of  a very  modest  quality,  were  so  well  cooked 
and  so  well  served,  and  so  neat  in  their  contrivances,  half  English  and  half  French, 
that  nothing  could  be  better.  Miss  Pross’s  friendship  being  of  the  thoroughly 
practical  kind,  she  had  ravaged  Soho  and  the  adjacent  provinces,  in  search  of 
impoverished  French,  who,  tempted  by  shillings  and  half-crowns,  would  impart 
culinary  mysteries  to  her.  From  these  decayed  sons  and  daughters  of  Gaul,  she 
had  acquired  such  wonderful  arts,  that  the  woman  and  girl  who  formed  the  staff 
of  domestics  regarded  her  as  quite  a Sorceress,  or  Cinderella’s  Godmother  : who 
would  send  out  for  a fowl,  a rabbit,  a vegetable  or  two  from  the  garden,  and 
change  them  into  anything  she  pleased. 

On  Sundays,  Miss  Pross  dined  at  the  Doctor’s  table,  but  on  other  days  persisted 
in  taking  her  meals  at  unknown  periods,  either  in  the  lower  regions,  or  in  her 
own  room  on  the  second  floor — a blue  chamber,  to  which  no  one  but  her  Lady- 
bird ever  gained  admittance.  On  this  occasion,  Miss  Pross,  responding  to  Lady- 
bird’s pleasant  face  and  pleasant  efforts  to  please  her,  unbent  exceedingly ; so 
the  dinner  was  very  pleasant,  too. 

It  was  an  oppressive  day,  and,  after  dinner,  Lucie  proposed  that  the  wine  should 
be  carried  out  under  the  plane-tree,  and  they  should  sit  there  in  the  air.  As 
everything  turned  upon  her,  and  revolved  about  her,  they  went  out  under  the 
plane-tree,  and  she  carried  the  wine  down  for  the  special  benefit  of  Mi.  L'rry, 


4 Garden  Party . 


57 


She  had  installed  herself,  some  time  before,  as  Mr.  Lorry’s  cup-bearer  ; and 
while  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree,  talking,  she  kept  his  glass  replenished.  Mys- 
terious backs  and  ends  of  houses  peeped  at  them  as  they  talked,  and  the  plane- 
tree  whispered  to  them  in  its  own  way  above  their  heads. 

S:ill,  the  Hundreds  of  people  did  not  present  themselves.  Mr.  Darnay  pre- 
sented himself  while  they  were  sitting  under  the  plane-tree,  but  he  was  only  One. 

Doctor  Manette  received  him  kindly,  and  so  did  Lucie.  But,  Miss  Pioss  sud- 
denly became  afflicted  with  a twitching  in  the  head  and  body,  and  retired  into  the 
house.  She  was  not  unfrequently  the  victim  of  this  disorder,  and  she  called  it, 
in  familiar  conversation,  “ a fit  of  the  jerks.” 

The  Doctor  was  in  his  best  condition,  and  looked  specially  young.  The  resem- 
blance between  him  and  Lucie  was  very  strong  at  such  times,  and  as  they  sat  side 
by  side,  she  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  resting  his  arm  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  it  was  very  agreeable  to  trace  the  likeness. 

He  had  been  talking  all  day,  on  many  subjects,  and  with  unusual  vivacity. 
“ Pray,  Doctor  Manette,”  said  Mr.  Darnay,  as  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree — and 
he  said  it  in  the  natural  pursuit  of  the  topic  in  hand,  which  happened  to  be  the 
old  buildings  of  London — “ have  you  seen  much  of  the  Tower  ?” 

“ Lucie  and  I have  been  there  ; but  only  casually.  We  have  seen  enough  of  it, 
to  know  that  it  teems  with  interest ; little  more.” 

“ / have  been  there,  as  you  remember,”  said  Darnay,  with  a smile,  though  red- 
dening a little  angrily,  “in  another  character,  and  not  in  a character  that  gives 
facilities  for  seeing  much  of  it.  They  told  me  a curious  thing  when  I was  there.” 

“What  was  that  ?”  Lucie  asked. 

“ In  making  some  alterations,  the  workmen  came  upon  an  old  dungeon,  which 
had  been,  for  many  years,  built  up  and  forgotten.  Every  stone  of  its  inner  wall 
was  covered  by  inscriptions  which  had  been  carved  by  prisoners — dates,  names, 
complaints,  and  prayers.  Upon  a corner  stone  in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  one 
prisoner,  who  seemed  to  have  gone  to  execution,  had  cut  as  his  last  work,  three 
letters.  They  were  done  with  some  very  poor  instrument,  and  hurriedly,  with  an 
unsteady  hand.  At  first,  they  were  read  as  D.  I.  C.  ; but,  on  being  more  care- 
fully examined,  the  last  letter  was  found  to  be  G.  There  was  no  record  or 
legend  of  any  prisoner  with  those  initials,  and  many  fruitless  guesses  were  made 
what  the  name  could  have  been.  At  length,  it  was  suggested  that  the  letters 
were  not  initials,  but  the  complete  word,  Dig.  The  floor  was  examined  very  care- 
fully under  the  inscription,  and,  in  the  earth  beneath  a stone,  or  tile,  or  some  frag- 
ment of  paving,  were  found  the  ashes  of  a paper,  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  a 
small  leathern  case  or  bag.  What  the  unknown  prisoner  had  written  will  never 
be  read,  but  he  had  written  something,  and  hidden  it  away  to  keep  it  from  the 
gaoler.” 

“ My  father,”  exclaimed  Lucie,  “you  are  ill !” 

He  had  suddenly  started  up,  with  his  hand  to  his  head.  His  manner  and  his 
look  quite  terrified  them  all. 

“No,  my  dear,  not  ill.  There  are  large  drops  of  .ain  falling,  and  they  made 
me  start.  We  had  better  go  in.” 

He  recovered  himself  almost  instantly.  Rain  was  really  falling  in  large  drops, 
and  he  showed  the  back  of  his  hand  with  rain-drops  on  it.  But,  he  said  not  a 
single  word  in  reference  to  the  discovery  that  had  been  told  of,  and,  as  they  went 
into  the  house,  the  business  eye  of  Mr.  Lorry  either  detected,  or  fancied  it  detected, 
on  his  face,  as  it  turned  towards  Charles  Darnay,  the  same  singular  look  that  had 
been  upon  it  when  it  turned  towards  him  in  the  passages  of  the  Court  House. 

He  recovered  himself  so  quickly,  however,  that  Mr.  Lorry  had  doubts  of  his 
business  eye.  The  arm  of  the  golden  giant  in  the  hall  was  not  more  steady  thau 


A T i ale  of  Two  Cities . 


he  was,  when  he  stopped  under  it  to  remark  to  them  that  he  was  not  yet  proof 
against  slight  surprises  (if  he  ever  would  be),  and  that  the  rain  had  startled  him. 

Tea-time,  and  Miss  Pross  making  tea,  with  another  fit  of  the  jerks  upon  her, 
and  yet  no  Hundreds  of  people.  Mr.  Carton  had  lounged  in,  but  he  made  only 

Two. 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat  with  doors  and  windows 
open,  they  were  overpowered  by  heat.  When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they 
all  moved  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the  heavy  twilight.  Lucie 
sat  by  her  father  ; Darnay  sat  beside  her  ; Carton  leaned  against  a window.  The 
curtains  were  long  and  white,  and  some  of  the  thunder-gusts  that  whirled 
into  the  corner,  caught  them  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  waved  them  like  spectral 
wings. 

“ The  rain-drops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and  few,”  said  Doctor  Manette. 
“It  comes  slowly.” 

“ It  comes  surely,”  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  low,  as  people  watching  and  waiting  mostly  do  ; as  people  in  a dark 
room,  watching  and  waiting  for  Lightning,  always  do. 

There  was  a great  hurry  in  the  streets,  of  people  speeding  away  to  get  shelter 
before  the  storm  broke  ; the  wonderful  corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the  echoes 
of  footsteps  coming  and  going,  yet  not  a footstep  was  there. 

“A  multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a solitude!”  said  Darnay,  when  they  had 
listened  for  a while. 

“ Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?”  asked  Lucie.  “Sometimes,  I have  sat 
here  of  an  evening,  until  I have  fancied — but  even  the  shade  of  a foolish  fancy 
makes  me  shudder  to-night,  when  all  is  so  black  and  solemn ” 

“ Let  us  shudder  too.  We  may  know  what  it  is.” 

“ It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only  impressive  as  we  originate 
them,  I think;  they  are  not  to  be  communicated.  I have  sometimes  sat  alone 
here  of  an  evening,  listening,  until  I have  made  the  echoes  out  to  be  the  echoes  of 
all  the  footsteps  that  are  coming  by-and-by  into  our  lives.” 

“ There  is  a great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our  lives,  if  that  be  so,”  Sydney 
Carton  struck  in,  in  his  moody  way. 

The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  huny  of  them  became  more  and  more 
rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  tread  of  feet  ; some,  as  it 
seemed,  under  the  windows  ; some,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  room ; some  coming, 
some  going,  some  breaking  off,  some  stopping  altogether  ; all  in  the  distant  streets, 
and  not  one  within  sight. 

“Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us,  Miss  Manette,  or  are  we 
to  divide  them  among  us  ?” 

“ I don’t  know,  Mr.  Darnay ; I told  you  it  was  a foolish  fancy,  but  you  asked 
for  it.  When  I have  yielded  myself  to  it,  I have  been  alone,  and  then  I have 
imagined  them  the  footsteps  of  the  people  who  are  to  come  into  my  life,  and  my 
father’s.” 

“ I take  them  into  mine  ! ” said  Carton.  “ 1 ask  no  questions  and  make  no  stipu- 
lations. There  is  a great  crowd  bearing  down  upon  us,  Miss  Manette,  and  I see 

them by  the  Lightning  ” He  added  the  last  words,  after  there  had  been  a 

vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him  lounging  in  the  window. 

“And  I hear  them!”  he  added  again,  after  a peal  of  thunder.  “Here  they 
come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious !” 

It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typified,  and  it  stopped  him,  for  no  voice 
could  be  heard  in  it.  A memorable  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with 
that  sweep  of  water,  and  there  was  not  a moment’s  interval  in  crash,  and  fire,  and 
*ain,  untJ  after  the  moon  rose  at  midnight. 


59 


A hopeful  state  of  Society . 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Paul’s  was  striking  One  in  the  cleared  air,  when  Mr. 
Lorry,  escorted  by  Jerry,  high-booted  and  bearing  a lantern,  set  forth  on  his 
return*  passage  to  Clerkenwell.  There  were  solitary  patches  of  road  on  the  way 
between  Soho  and  Clerkenwell,  and  Mr.  Lorry,  mindful  of  footpads,  always 
retained  Jerry  for  this  service  : though  it  was  usually  performed  a good  two  hours 
earlier. 

“ What  a night  it  has  been ! Almost  a night,  Jerry/’  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ to  bring 
the  dead  out  of  their  graves.” 

“ I never  see  the  night  myself,  master — nor  yet  I don’t  expect  to— what  would 
do  that,”  answered  Jerry. 

“ Good  night,  Mr.  Carton,”  said  the  man  of  business.  “ Good  night,  Mr. 
Darnay.  Shall  we  ever  see  such  a night  again,  together !” 

Perhaps.  Perhaps,  see  the  great  crowd  of  people  with  its  rush  and  roar,  bearing 
down  upon  them,  too. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MONSEIGNEUR  IN  TOWN. 

Monseigneur,  one  of  the  great  lords  in  power  at  the  Court,  held  his  fortnightly 
reception  in  his  grand  hotel  in  Paris.  Monseigneur  was  in  his  inner  room,  his 
sanctuaiy  of  sanctuaries,  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  the  crowd  df  worshippers  in 
the  suite  of  rooms  without.  Monseigneur  was  about  to  take  his  chocolate.  Mon- 
seigneur could  swallow  a great  many  things  with  ease,  and  was  by  some  few  sullen 
minds  supposed  to  be  rather  rapidly  swallowing  France  ; but,  his  morning’s  choco- 
late could  not  so  much  as  get  into  the  throat  of  Monseigneur,  without  the  aid  of 
four  strong  men  besides  the  Cook. 

Yes.  It  took  four  men,  all  four  a-blaze  with  gorgeous  decoration,  and  the  Chief 
of  them  unable  to  exist  with  fewer  than  two  gold  watches  in  his  pocket, 
emulative  of  the  noble  and  chaste  fashion  set  by  Monseigneur,  to  conduct  the 
happy  chocolate  to  Monseigneur’s  lips.  One  lacquey  carried  the  chocolate-pot 
into  the  sacred  presence ; a second,  milled  and  frothed  the  chocolate  with  the 
little  instrument  he  bore  for  that  function ; a third,  presented  the  favoured  napkin  ; 
a fourth  (he  of  the  two  gold  watches),  poured  the  chocolate  out.  It  was  impossible 
for  Monseigneur  to  dispense  with  one  of  these  attendants  on  the  chocolate  and 
hold  his  high  place  under  the  admiring  Heavens.  Deep  would  have  been  the  blot 
upon  his  escutcheon  if  his  chocolate  had  been  ignobly  waited  on  by  only  three 
men  ; he  must  have  died  of  two. 

Monseigneur  had  been  out  at  a little  supper  last  night,  where  the  Comedy  and 
the  Grand  Opera  were  charmingly  represented.  Monseigneur  was  out  at  a little 
supper  most  nights,  with  fascinating  company.  So  polite  and  so  impressible  was 
Monseigneur,  that  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera  had  far  more  influence 
with  him  in  the  tiresome  articles  of  state  affairs  and  state  secrets,  than  the  needs 
of  all  France.  A happy  circumstance  for  France,  as  the  like  always  is  for  all 
countries  similarly  favoured  ! — always  was  for  England  (by  way  of  example),  in  the 
regretted  days  of  the  merry  Stuart  who  sold  it. 

Monseigneur  had  one  truly  noble  idea  of  general  public  business,  which  was,  to 
let  everything  go  on  in  its  own  way ; of  particular  public  business,  Monseigneur 
had  the  other  truly  noble  idea  that  it  must  all  go  his  way — tend  to  his  own  power  and 
pocket.  Of  his  pleasoures,  general  and  particular,  Monseigneur  had  the  other  t/nly 


6o 


A T.  ale  of  Two  Cities. 


Aoble  idea,  that  the  world  was  made  for  them.  The  text  of  his  order  (altered  from  the 
original  by  only  a pronoun,  which  is  not  much)  ran  : “The  earth  and  the  fulness 
thereof  are  mine,  saith  Monseigneur.” 

Yet,  Monseigneur  had  slowly  found  that  vulgar  embarrassments  crept  into  his 
affairs,  both  private  and  public;  and  he  had,  as  to  both  classes  of  affairs,  allied 
himself  perforce  with  a Farmer-General.  As  to  finances  public,  because  Mon- 
seigneur could  not  make  anything  at  all  of  them,  and  must  consequently  let  them 
out  to  somebody  who  could  ; as  to  finances  private,  because  Farmer-Generals  were 
rich,  and  Monseigneur,  after  generations  of  great  luxury  and  expense,  was  growing 
poor.  Hence  Monseigneur  had  taken  his  sister  from  a convent,  while  there  was 
yet  time  to  ward  off  the  impending  veil,  the  cheapest  garment  she  could  wear,  and 
had  bestowed  her  as  a prize  upon  a very  rich  Farmer-General,  poor  in  family. 
Which  Farmer-General,  carrying  an  appropriate  cane  with  a golden  apple  on  the 
top  of  it,  was  now  among  the  company  in  the  outer  rooms,  much  prostrated  before 
by  mankind — always  excepting  superior  mankind  of  the  blood  of  Monseigneur, 
who,  his  own  wife  included,  looked  down  upon  him  with  the  loftiest  contempt. 

A sumptuous  man  was  the  Farmer-General.  Thirty  horses  stood  in  his  stables, 
twenty-four  male  domestics  sat  in  his  halls,  six  body-women  waited  on  his  wife. 
As  one  who  pretended  to  do  nothing  but  plunder  and  forage  where  he  could,  the 
Farmer-General — howsoever  his  matrimonial  relations  conduced  to  social  morality 
- — was  at  least  the  greatest  reality  among  the  personages  who  attended  at  the  hotel 
of  Monseigneur  that  day. 

For,  the  rooms,  though  a beautiful  scene  to  look  at,  and  adorned  with  every 
device  of  decoration  that  the  taste  and  skill  of  the  time  could  achieve,  were,  in 
truth,  not  a sound  business ; considered  with  any  reference  to  the  scarecrows  in 
the  rags  and  nightcaps  elsewhere  (and  not  so  far  off,  either,  but  that  the  watching 
towers  of  Notre  Dame,  almost  equi-distant  from  the  two  extremes,  could  see  them 
both),  they  would  have  been  an  exceedingly  uncomfortable  business — if  that  could 
have  been  anybody’s  business,  at  the  house  of  Monseigneur.  Military  officers 
destitute  of  military  knowledge  ; naval  officers  with  no  idea  of  a ship  ; civil  officers 
without  a notion  of  affairs  ; brazen  ecclesiastics,  of  the  worst  world  worldly,  with 
sensual  eyes,  loose  tongues,  and  looser  lives  ; all  totally  unfit  for  their  several  call- 
ings, all  lying  horribly  in  pretending  to  belong  to  them,  but  all  nearly  or  remotely 
of  the  order  of  Monseigneur,  and  therefore  foisted  on  all  public  employments  from 
which  anything  was  to  be  got ; these  were  to  be  told  off  by  the  score  and  the  score. 
People  not  immediately  connected  with  Monseigneur  or  the  State,  yet  equally  un- 
connected wiih  anything  that  was  real,  or  with  lives  passed  in  travelling  by  any 
straight  road  to  any  true  earthly  end,  were  no  less  abundant.  Doctors  who  made 
great  fortunes  out  of  dainty  remedies  for  imaginary  disorders  that  never  existed, 
smiled  upon  their  courtly  patients  in  the  ante-chambers  of  Monseigneur.  Pro- 
jectors who  had  discovered  every  kind  of  remedy  for  the  little  evils  with  which  the 
State  was  touched,  except  the  remedy  of  setting  to  work  in  earnest  to  root  out  a 
single  sin,  poured  their  distracting  babble  into  any  ears  they  could  lay  hold  of,  at 
the  reception  of  Monseigneur.  Unbelieving  Philosophers  who  were  remodelling 
the  world  with  words,  and  making  card-towers  of  Babel  to  scale  the  skies  with, 
talked  with  Unbelieving  Chemists  who  had  an  eye  on  the  transmutation  of  metals, 
at  this  wonderful  gathering  accumulated  by  Monseigneur.  Exquisite  gentlemen  oi 
the  finest  breeding,  which  was  at  that  remarkable  time— and  has  been  since— to  be 
known  by  its  fruits  of  indifference  to  every  natural  subject  of  human  interest,  were 
in  the  most  exemplary  state  of  exhaustion,  at  the  hotel  of  Monseigneur.  Such 
domes  had  these  various  notabilities  left  behind  them  in  the  fine  world  of  Paris, 
tnat  the  spies  among  the  assembled  devotees  of  Monseigneur^— forming  a goodU 
half  qi  the  polite  rcmpany — woidd  have  found  it  hard  to  discover  among  in* 


Dressed  for  Ever . 6l 

angels  of  that  sphere  one  solitary  wife,  who,  in  her  manners  and  appearance, 
owned  to  being  a Mother.  Indeed,  except  for  the  mere  act  of  bringing  a trouble- 
some creature  into  this  world — which  does  not  go  far  towards  the  realisation  of  the 
name  of  mother — there  was  no  such  thing  known  to  the  fashion.  Peasant  women 
kept  the  unfashionable  babies  close,  and  brought  them  up,  and  charming  grand- 
mammas of  sixty  dressed  and  supped  as  at  twenty. 

The  leprosy  of  unreality  disfigured  every  human  creature  in  attendance  upon 
Monseigneur.  In  the  outermost  room  were  half  a dozen  exceptional  people  who 
had  had,  for  a few  years,  some  vague  misgiving  in  them  that  things  in  general 
were  going  rather  wrong.  As  a promising  way  of  setting  them  right,  half  of  the 
half-dozen  had  become  members  of  a fantastic  sect  of  Convulsionists,  and  were 
even  then  considering  within  themselves  whether  they  should  foam,  rage,  roar, 
and  turn  cataleptic  on  the  spot — thereby  setting  up  a highly  intelligible  finger-post 
to  the  Future,  for  Monseigneur’s  guidance.  Besides  these  Dervishes,  were  other 
three  who  had  rushed  into  another  sect,  which  mended  matters  with  a jargon  about 
“ the  Centre  of  Truth  : ” holding  that  Man  had  got  out  of  the  Centre  of  Truth — 
which  did  not  need  much  demonstration — but  had  not  got  out  of  the  Circumference, 
and  that  he  was  to  be  kept  from  flying  out  of  the  Circumference,  and  was  even  to 
be  shoved  back  into  the  Centre,  by  fasting  and  seeing  of  spirits.  Among  these, 
accordingly,  much  discoursing  with  spirits  went  on — and  it  did  a world  of  good 
which  never  became  manifest. 

But,  the  comfort  was,  that  all  the  company  at  the  grand  hotel  of  Monseigneur 
were  perfectly  dressed.  If  the  Day  of  Judgment  had  only  been  ascertained  to  be 
a dress  day,  everybody  there  would  have  been  eternally  correct.  Such  frizzling 
and  powdering  and  sticking  up  of  hair,  such  delicate  complexions  artificially  pre- 
served and  mended,  such  gallant  swords  to  look  at,  and  such  delicate  honour  to 
the  sense  of  smell,  would  surely  keep  anything  going,  for  ever  and  ever.  The 
exquisite  gentlemen  of  the  finest  breeding  wore  little  pendent  trinkets  that  chinked 
as  they  languidly  moved  ; these  golden  fetters  rang  like  precious  little  bells  ; and 
what  with  that  ringing,  and  with  the  rustle  of  silk  and  brocade  and  fine  linen,  there 
was  a flutter  in  the  air  that  fanned  Saint  Antoine  and  his  devouring  hunger  faraway. 

Dress  was  the  one  unfailing  talisman  and  charm  used  for  keeping  all  things  in 
their  places.  Everybody  was  dressed  for  a Fancy  Ball  that  was  never  to  leave  off. 
From  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  through  Monseigneur  and  the  whole  Court, 
through  the  Chambers,  the  Tribunals  of  Justice,  and  all  society  (except  the  scare- 
crows), the  Fancy  Ball  descended  to  the  Common  Executioner:  who,  in  pursuance 
of  the  diarm,  was  required  to  officiate  “frizzled,  powdered,  in  a gold-laced  coat, 
pumps,  and  white  silk  stockings.”  At  the  gallows  and  the  wheel — the  axe  was  a 
rarity — Monsieur  Paris,  as  it  was  the  episcopal  mode  among  his  brother  Professors 
of  the  provinces,  Monsieur  Orleans,  and  the  rest,  to  call  him,  presided  in  this 
dainty  dress.  And  who  among  the  company  at  Monseigneur’s  reception  in  that 
seventeen  hundred  and  eightieth  year  of  our  Lord,  could  possibly  doubt,  that  a 
system  rooted  in  a frizzled  hangman,  powdered,  gold-laced,  pumped,  and  white- 
silk  stockinged,  would  see  the  very  stars  out ! 

Monseigneur  having  eased  his  four  men  of  their  burdens  and  taken  his  chocolate, 
caused  the  doors  of  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  -to  be  thrown  open,  and  issued  forth. 
Then,  what  submission,  what  cringing  and  fawning,  what  servility,  what  abject 
humiliation  ! As  to  bowing  down  in  body  and  spirit,  nothing  in  that  way  was  left 
for  Heaven — which  may  have  been  one  among  other  reasons  why  the  worshipper* 
of  Monseigneur  never  troubled  it. 

Bestowing  n word  of  promise  here  and  a smile  there,  a whisper  on  one  happy 
slave  and  a wave  of  the  hand  on  another,  Monseigneur  affably  passed  through  his 
rooms  to  the  remote  region  of  the  Circumference  of  Truth.  There,  Monseigneui 


6z 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

turned,  and  came  back  again,  and  so  in  due  course  of  time  got  himself  shut  up  in 
his  sanctuary  by  the  chocolate  sprites,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  show  being  over,  the  flutter  in  the  air  became  quite  a little  storm,  and  the 
precious  little  bells  went  ringing  down  stairs.  There  was  soon  but  one  person  left 
of  all  the  crowd,  and  he,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  his  snuff-box  in  his  hand, 
slowly  passed  among  the  mirrors  on  his  way  out. 

“I  devote  you, ” said  this  person,  stopping  at  the  last  door  on  his  way,  and 
turning  in  the  direction  of  the  sanctuary,  “ to  the  Devil ! ” 

With  that,  he  shook  the  snuff  from  his  fingers  as  if  he  had  shaken  the  dust  from 
his  feet,  and  quietly  walked  down  stairs. 

He  was  a man  of  about  sixty,  handsomely  dressed,  haughty  in  manner,  and  with 
a face  like  a fine  mask.  A face  of  a transparent  paleness ; every  feature  in  it 
clearly  defined  ; one  set  expression  on  it.  The  nose,  beautifully  formed  otherwise, 
was  very  slightly  pinched  at  the  top  of  each  nostril.  In  those  two  compressions,  or 
dints,  the  only  little  change  that  the  face  ever  showed,  resided.  They  persisted  in 
changing  colour  sometimes,  and  they  would  be  occasionally  dilated  and  contracted 
by  something  like  a faint  pulsation ; then,  they  gave  a look  of  treachery,  and 
cruelty,  to  the  whole  countenance.  Examined  with  attention,  its  capacity  of 
helping  such  a look  was  to  be  found  in  the  line  of  the  mouth,  and  the  lines  of  the 
orbits  of  the  eyes,  being  much  too  horizontal  and  thin ; still,  in  the  effect  the  face 
made,  it  was  a handsome  face,  and  a remarkable  one. 

Its  owner  went  down  stairs  into  the  court-yard,  got  into  his  carriage,  and  drove 
away.  Not  many  people  had  talked  with  him  at  the  reception ; he  had  stood  in  a 
little  space  apart,  and  Monseigneur  might  have  been  warmer  in  his  manner.  It 
appeared,  under  the  circumstances,  rather  agreeable  to  him  to  see  the  common 
people  dispersed  before  his  horses,  and  often  barely  escaping  from  being  run  down. 
His  man  drove  as  if  he  were  charging  an  enemy,  and  the  furious  recklessness  of 
the  man  brought  no  check  into  the  face,  or  to  the  lips,  of  the  master.  The  com- 
plaint had  sometimes  made  itself  audible,  even  in  that  deaf  city  and  dumb  age, 
that,  in  the  narrow  streets  without  footways,  the  fierce  patrician  custom  of  hard 
driving  endangered  and  maimed  the  mere  vulgar  in  a barbarous  manner.  But, 
few  cared  enough  for  that  to  think  of  it  a second  time,  and,  in  this  matter,  as 
in  all  others,  the  common  wretches  were  left  to  get  out  of  their  difficulties  as 
they  could. 

With  a wild  rattle  and  clatter,  and  an  inhuman  abandonment  of  consideration  not 
easy  to  be  understood  in  these  days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and  swept 
round  corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it,  and  men  clutching  each  other  and 
clutching  children  out  of  its  way.  At  last,  swooping  at  a street  corner  by  a foun- 
tain, one  of  its  wheels  came  to  a sickening  little  jolt,  and  there  was  a loud  cry 
from  a number  of  voices,  and  the  horses  reared  and  plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably  would  not  have  stopped ; 
carriages  were  often  known  to  drive  on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  why 
not  ? But  the  frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a hurry,  and  there  were  twenty 
hands  at  the  horses’  bridles. 

“ What  has  gone  wrong  ?”  said  Monsieur,  calmly  looking  out. 

A tall  man  in  a nightcap  had  caught  up  a bundle  from  among  the  feet  of  the 
horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the  basement  of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud 
and  wet,  howling  over  it  like  a wild  animal. 

“ Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  !”  said  a ragged  and  submissive  man,  “ it  is  a 
child.” 

“ Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise  ? Is  it  his  child  ?M 

“ Excuse  me,  Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a pity — yes.” 

The  fountain  was  a little  removed  ; for  the  street  opened,  where  it  was,  into  a 


Only  a Child  run  over . 


63 

space  some  ten  or  twelve  yards  square.  As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from  the 
ground,  and  came  running  at  the  carriage,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  clapped  his  hand 
for  an  instant  on  his  sword-hilt. 

“Killed!”  shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  extending  both  arms  at  their 
length  above  his  head,  and  staring  at  him.  “ Dead  !” 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  There  was 
nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes  that  looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eager- 
ness ; there  was  no  visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did  the  people  say  any- 
thing ; after  the  first  cry,  they  had  been  silent,  and  they  remained  so.  The  voice 
of  the  submissive  man  who  had  spoken,  was  flat  and  tame  in  its  extreme  submis- 
sion. Monsieur  the  Marquis  ran  his  eyes  over  them  all,  as  if  they  had  been  mere 
rats  come  out  of  their  holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse. 

“It  is  extraordinary  to  me,”  said  he,  “that  you  people  cannot  take  care  ol 
yourselves  and  your  children.  One  or  the  other  of  you  is  for  ever  in  the  way. 
How  do  I know  what  injury  you  have  done  my  horses.  See ! Give  him  that.” 
He  threw  out  a gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up,  and  all  the  heads  craned 
forward  that  all  the  eyes  might  look  down  at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out 
again  with  a most  unearthly  cry,  “ Dead  ! ” * 

He  was  arrested  by  the  quick  arrival  of  another  man,  for  whom  the  rest  made 
waj  On  seeing  him,  the  miserable  creature  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and 
crying,  and  pointing  to  the  fountain,  where  some  women  were  stooping  over  the 
motionless  bundle,  and  moving  gently  about  it.  They  were  as  silent,  however,  as 
tne  men. 

“ I know  all,  I know  all,”  said  the  last  comer.  “Be  a brave  man,  my  Gaspard ! 
Jt  is  better  for  the  poor  little  plaything  to  die  so,  than  to  live.  It  has  died  in  a 
moment  without  pain.  Could  it  have  lived  an  hour  as  happily  ?” 

“You  are  a philosopher,  you  there,”  said  the  Marquis,  smiling.  “ How  do 
they  call  you  ?” 

“ They  call  me  Defarge.” 

“Of  what  trade?” 

“ Monsieur  the  Marquis,  vendor  of  wine.” 

“ Pick  up  that,  philosopher  and  vendor  of  wine,”  said  the  Marquis,  throwing 
him  another  gold  coin,  “ and  spend  it  as  you  will.  The  horses  there  ; are  they 
right  ?” 

Without  deigning  to  look  at  the  assemblage  a second  time,  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  was  just  being  driven  away  with  the  air  of  a 
gentleman  who  had  accidentally  broke  some  common  thing,  and  had  paid  for  it, 
and  could  afford  to  pay  for  it ; when  his  ease  was  suddenly  disturbed  by  a coin 
flying  into  his  carriage,  and  ringing  on  its  floor. 

“ Hold  ! ” said  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  “ Hold  the  horses  ! Who  threw  that  ?” 
He  looked  to  the  spot  where  Defarge  the  vendor  of  wine  had  stood,  a moment 
before ; but  the  wretched  father  was  grovelling  on  his  face  on  the  pavement  in 
that  spot,  and  the  figure  that  stood  beside  him  was  the  figure  of  a dark  stout 
woman,  knitting. 

“You  dogs!”  said  the  Marquis,  but  smoothly,  and  with  an  unchanged  front, 
except  as  to  the  spots  on  his  nose  : “I  would  ride  over  any  of  you  very  willingly, 
and  exterminate  you  from  the  earth.  If  I knew  which  rascal  threw  at  the  carriage, 
and  if  that  brigand  were  sufficiently  near  it,  he  should  be  crushed  under  the 
wheels.” 

So  cowed  was  their  condition,  and  so  long  and  hard  their  experience  of  what 
iuch  a man  could  do  to  them,  within  the  law  and  beyond  it,  that  not  a voice,  or  a 
hand,  or  even  an  eye  was  raised.  Among  the  men,  not  one.  But  the  womaa 


64 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


who  stood  knitting  looked  up  steadily,  and  looked  the  Marquis  in  the  face.  It 
was  not  for  his  dignity  to  notice  it ; his  contemptuous  eyes  passed  over  her,  and 
over  all  the  other  rats ; and  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  again,  and  gave  the  word 
“Goon!” 

He  was  driven  on,  and  other  carriages  came  whirling  by  in  quick  succession ; 
the  Minister,  the  State-Projector,  the  Farmer- General,  the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer, 
the  Ecclesiastic,  the  Grand  Opera,  the  Comedy,  the  whole  Fancy  Ball  in  a bright 
continuous  flow,  came  whirling  by.  The  rats  had  crept  out  of  their  holes  to  look 
on,  and  they  remained  looking  on  for  hours  ; soldiers  and  police  often  passing 
between  them  and  the  spectacle,  and  making  a barrier  behind  which  they  slunk, 
and  through  which  they  peeped.  The  father  had  long  ago  taken  up  his  bundle 
and  hidden  himself  away  with  it,  when  the  women  who  had  tended  the  bundle 
while  it  lay  on  the  base  of  the  fountain,  sat  there  watching  the  running  of  the 
water  and  the  rolling  of  the  Fancy  Ball — when  the  one  woman  who  had  stood 
conspicuous,  knitting,  still  knitted  on  with  the  steadfastness  of  Fate.  The  water 
of  the  fountain  ran,  the  swift  river  ran,  the  day  ran  into  evening,  so  much  life  in 
the  city  ran  into  death  according  to  rule,  time  and  tide  waited  for  no  man,  the  rats 
were  sleeping  close  together  in  their  dark  holes  again,  the  Fancy  Ball  was  lighted 
uo  at  supper,  all  things  ran  their  course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

A BEAUTIFUL  landscape,  with  the  corn  bright  in  it,  but  not  abundant.  Patches 
of  poor  rye  where  corn  should  have  been,  patches  of  poor  peas  and  beans,  patches 
of  most  coarse  vegetable  substitutes  for  wheat.  On  inanimate  nature,  as  on  the 
men  and  women  wrho  cultivated  it,  a prevalent  tendency  towards  an  appearance  of 
vegetating  unwillingly — a dejected  disposition  to  give  up,  and  withei  away. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  in  his  travelling  carriage  (which  might  have  been  lighter), 
conducted  by  four  post-horses  and  two  postilions,  fagged  up  a steep  hill.  A blush 
on  the  countenance  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis  was  no  impeachment  of  his  high 
breeding ; it  was  not  from  within  ; it  was  occasioned  by  an  external  circumstance 
beyond  his  control — the  setting  sun. 

The  sunset  struck  so  brilliantly  into  the  travelling  carriage  when  it  gained  the 
hill-top,  that  its  occupant  was  steeped  in  crimson.  “ It  will  die  out,”  said  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  glancing  at  his  hands  “ directly.” 

In  effect,  the  sun  was  so  low  that  it  dipped  at  the  moment.  When  the  heavy 
drag  had  been  adjusted  to  the  wheel,  and  the  carriage  slid  down  hill,  wHh  a 
cinderous  smell,  in  a cloud  of  dust,  the  red  glow  departed  quickly ; the  sun  and 
the  Marquis  going  down  together,  there  was  no  glow  left  when  the  drag  was 
taken  off. 

But,  there  remained  a broken  country,  bold  and  open,  a little  village  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  a broad  sweep  and  rise  beyond  it,  a church-tower,  a windmill, 
a forest  for  the  chase,  and  a crag  with  a fortress  on  it  used  as  a prison.  Round 
upon  all  these  darkening  objects  as  the  night  drew  on,  the  Marquis  looked,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  was  coming  near  home. 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its  poor  brewery,  poor  tannery,  poor 
tavern,  poor  stable-yard  for  reiays  of  post-horses,  poor  fountain,  all  usual  poor 
appointments.  It  had  its  poor  people  too.  Al]  its  people  were  poor,  and  many 
of  them  were  sitting  at  their  doors,  shredding  spare  onions  and  the  like  foi 


A man  toe  many. 


65 


sapper,  while  man/  'v/ere  it  the  fountain,  washing  leaves,  and  grasses,  and  any 
»uch  small  yieldings  of  the  earth  that  could  be  eaten.  Expressive  signs  of  what 
made  them  poor,  were  not  wanting  ; the  tax  for  the  state,  the  tax  for  the  church, 
the  tax  f«r  Wd.  tax  local  and  ta  x;  general,  were  to  be  paid  here  and  to  be  paid 
there,  according  to  solemn  inscription  in  the  little  village,  until  the  wonder  was, 
that  there  was  any  village  left  unswallowed. 

Few  ''hddren  wer°  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs.  As  to  the  men  and  women,  their 
choice  on  earth  was  stated  in  tire  prospect — Life  on  the  lowest  terms  that  could 
sustain  it,  down  in  the  little  village  under  the  mill ; or  captivity  and  Death  in  the 
dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Heralded  by  a courier  in  advance,  and  by  the  cracking  of  his  postilions’  whips, 
which  twined  snake-like  about  their  heads  in  the  evening  air,  as  if  he  came 
attended  by  the  Furies,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  drew  up  in  his  travelling  carriage 
at  the  posting-house  gate.  It  was  hard  by  the  fountain,  and  the  peasants  sus- 
pended their  operations  to  look  at  him.  He  looked  at  them,  and  saw  in  them, 
•without  knowing  it,  the  slow  sure  filing  down  of  misery-worn  face  and  figure,  that 
was  to  make  the  meagreness  of  Frenchmen  an  English  superstition  which  should 
survive  the  truth  through  the  best  part  of  a hundred  years. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  cast  his  eyes  over  the  submissive  faces  that  drooped 
before  him,  as  the  like  of  himself  had  drooped  before  Monseigneur  of  the  Court 
— only  the  difference  was,  that  these  faces  drooped  merely  to  suffer  and  not  to 
propitiate — when  a grizzled  mender  of  the  roads  joined  the  group. 

“ Bring  me  hither  that  fellow  ! ” said  the  Marquis  to  the  courier. 

The  fellow  was  brought,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  other  fellows  closed  round  to  look 
and  listen,  in  the  manner  of  the  people  at  the  Paris  fountain. 

“ I passed  you  on  the  road  ?” 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  true.  I had  the  honour  of  being  passed  on  the  road.” 

“ Coming  up  the  hill,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  both  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  true.” 

“ What  did  you  look  at,  so  fixedly  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  I looked  at  the  man.” 

He  stooped  a little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap  pointed  under  the  carriage. 
All  his  fellows  stooped  to  look  under  the  carriage. 

“ What  man,  pig  ? And  why  look  there  ? ” 

“ Pardon,  Monseigneur ; he  swung  by  the  chain  of  the  shoe — the  drag.” 

“ Who  ? ” demanded  the  traveller. 

“ Monseigneur,  the  man.” 

1 1 May  the  Devil  cany  away  these  idiots  ! How  do  you  call  the  man?  You 
know  all  the  men  of  this  part  of  the  country.  Who  was  he  ? ” 

“ Your  clemency,  Monseigneur ! He  was  not  of  this  part  of  the  country.  Of 
all  the  days  of  my  life,  I never  saw  him.” 

“ Swinging  by  the  chain  ? To  be  suffocated  ? ” 

“ With  your  gracious  permission,  that  was  the  wonder  of  it,  Monseigneur. 
His  head  hanging  over — like  this  ! ” 

He  turned  himself  sideways  to  the  carriage,  and  leaned  back,  with  his  face 
thrown  up  to  the  sky,  and  his  head  hanging  down ; then  recovered  himself,  fumbled 
with  his  cap,  and  made  a bow. 

“ What  was  he  like  ? ” 

“Monseigneur,  he  was  whiter  than  the  miller.  All  covered  with  dust,  white  as 
a spectre,  tall  as  a spectre  1 ” 

The  picture  produced  an  immense  sensation  in  the  little  crowd ; but  all  eyes, 
without  comparing  notes  with  other  eyes,  looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Per- 
haps, to  observe  whether  he  had  any  spectre  on  his  conscience. 

F 


66 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

**  Truly,  you  did  well,”  said  the  Marquis,  felicitously  sensible  that  such  vermin 
were  not  to  ruffle  him,  “to  see  a thief  accompanying  my  carriage,  and  not  open 
that  great  mouth  of  yours.  Bah  ! Put  him  aside,  Monsieur  Gabelle  ! ” 

Monsieur  Gabelle  was  the  Postmaster,  and  some  other  taxing  functionary  united  ; 
he  had  come  out  with  great  obsequiousness  to  assist  at  this  examination,  and  had 
held  the  examined  by  the  drapery  of  his  arm  in  an  official  manner. 

“ Bah  ! Go  aside  ! ” said  Monsieur  Gabelle. 

“ Lay  hinds  on  this  stranger  if  he  seeks  to  lodge  in  your  village  to-night,  and 
be  sure  that  his  business  is  honest,  Gabelle.” 

“ Monseigueur,  I am  flattered  to  devote  myself  to  your  orders.” 

“ Did  he  run  away,  fellow  ? — where  is  that  Accursed  ?” 

The  accursed  was  already  under  the  carriage  with  some  half-dozen  particular 
friends,  pointing  out  the  chain  with  his  blue  cap.  Some  half-dozen  other  par- 
ticular friends  promptly  hauled  him  out,  and  presented  him  breathless  to  Monsieur 
the  Marquis. 

“ Did  the  man  run  away,  Dolt,  when  we  stopped  for  the  drag  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  he  precipitated  himself  over  the  hill-side,  head  first,  as  a person 
plunges  into  the  river.” 

“ See  to  it,  Gabelle.  Go  on  ! ” 

The  half-dozen  who  were  peering  at  the  chain  were  still  among  the  wheels,  like 
sheep  ; the  wheels  turned  so  suddenly  that  they  were  lucky  to  save  their  skins  and 
bones ; they  had  very  little  else  to  save,  or  they  might  not  have  been  so  fortunate. 

The  burst  with  which  the  carriage  started  out  of  the  village  and  up  the  rise 
beyond,  was  soon  checked  by  the  steepness  of  the  hill.  Gradually,  it  subsided 
to  a foot  pace,  swinging  and  lumbering  upward  among  the  many  sweet  scents  of  a 
summer  night.  The  postilions,  with  a thousand  gossamer  gnats  circling  about 
them  in  lieu  of  the  Furies,  quietly  mended  the  points  to  the  lashes  of  their  whips ; 
the  valet  walked  by  the  horses  ; the  courier  was  audible,  trotting  on  ahead  into 
the  dim  distance. 

At  the  steepest  point  of  the  hill  there  was  a little  burial-ground,  with  a Cross 
and  a new  large  figure  of  Our  Saviour  on  it ; it  was  a poor  figure  in  wood,  done 
by  some  inexperienced  rustic  carver,  but  he  had  studied  the  figure  from  the  life — 
his  own  life,  maybe — for  it  was  dreadfully  spare  and  thin. 

To  this  distressful  emblem  of  a great  distress  that  had  long  been  growing  worse, 
and  was  not  at  its  worst,  a woman  was  kneeling.  She  turned  her  head  as  the 
carriage  came  up  to  her,  rose  quickly,  and  presented  herself  at  the  carriage-door. 

“ It  is  you,  Monseigneur  ! Monseigneur,  a petition.” 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  but  with  his  unchangeable  face,  Mon- 
seigneur looked  out. 

“ How,  then  ! What  is  it  ? Always  petitions  ! ” 

“ Monseigneur.  For  the  love  of  the  great  God  ! My  husband,  the  forester.” 
“What  of  your  husband,  the  forester?  Always  the  same  with  you  people. 
1 le  cannot  pay  something  ? ” 

“ He  has  paid  all,  Monseigneur.  He  is  dead.” 

“ Well ! He  is  quiet.  Can  I restore  him  to  you  ? ” 

“Alas,  no,  Monseigneur ! But  he  lies  yonder,  under  a little  heap  of  poor  grass.'* 
“ Well  ? ” 

**  Monseigneur,  there  are  so  many  little  heaps  of  poor  grass  ?" 

“Again,  well ? ” 

She  looked  an  old  woman,  but  was  young.  Her  manner  was  one  of  passionate 
grief ; by  turns  she  clasped  her  veinous  and  knotted  hands  together  with  wild 
energy,  and  laid  one  of  them  on  the  carriage-door — tenderly,  caressingly,  as  if  it 
hid  lien  a human  breast,  and  could  be  expected  to  feel  the  appealing  touch. 


A Petition  to  Monseigneur . 67 

“ Monseigneur,  hear  me  ! Monseigneur,  hear  my  petition  ! My  husband  died 
of  want ; so  many  die  of  want ; so  many  more  will  die  of  want.” 

“Again,  well  ? Can  I feed  them  ? ” 

“ Monseigneur,  the  good  God  knows  ; but  I don’t  ask  it.  My  petition  is,  that 
a morsel  of  stone  or  wood,  with  my  husband’s  name,  may  be  placed  over  him  tc 
show  where  he  lies.  Otherwise,  the  place  will  be  quickly  forgotten,  it  will  never 
be  found  when  I am  dead  of  the  same  malady,  I shall  be  laid  under  some  other 
heap  of  poor  grass.  Monseigneur,  they  are  so  many,  they  increase  so  fast,  there 
is  so  much  want.  Monseigneur  ! Monseigneur  ! ” 

The  valet  had  put  her  away  from  the  door,  the  carriage  had  broken  into  a brisk 
trot,  the  postilions  had  quickened  the  pace,  she  was  left  far  behind,  and  Mon- 
seigneur, again  escorted  by  the  Furies,  was  rapidly  diminishing  the  league  or  two 
of  distance  that  remained  between  him  and  his  chateau. 

The  sweet  scents  of  the  summer  night  rose  all  around  him,  and  rose,  as  the  rain 
falls,  impartially,  on  the  dusty,  ragged,  and  toil-worn  group  at  the  fountain  not 
far  away ; to  whom  the  mender  of  roads,  with  the  aid  of  the  blue  cap  without 
which  he  was  nothing,  still  enlarged  upon  his  man  like  a spectre,  as  long  as  they 
could  bear  it.  By  degrees,  as  they  could  bear  no  more,  they  dropped  off  one  by 
one,  and  lights  twinkled  in  little  casements ; which  lights,  as  the  casements 
darkened,  and  more  stars  came  out,  seemed  to  have  shot  up  into  the  sky  instead 
of  having  been  extinguished. 

The  shadow  of  a large  high-roofed  house,  and  of  many  overhanging  trees,  was 
upon  Monsieur  the  Marquis  by  that  time  ; and  the  shadow  was  exchanged  for  the 
light  of  a flambeau,  as  his  carriage  stopped,  and  the  great  door  of  his  chateau  was 
opened  to  him. 

Monsieur  Charles,  whom  I expect ; is  he  arrived  from  England  ? 99 

“ Monseigneur,  not  yet.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  GORGON’S  HEAD. 

It  was  a heavy  mass  of  building,  that  chateau  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  with  a 
large  stone  court-yard  before  it,  and  two  stone  sweeps  of  staircase  meeting  in  a 
stone  terrace  before  the  principal  door.  A stony  business  altogether,  with  heavy 
stone  balustrades,  and  stone  urns,  and  stone  flowers,  and  stone  faces  of  men,  and 
stone  heads  of  lions,  in  all  directions.  As  if  the  Gorgon’s  head  had  surveyed  it, 
when  it  was  finished,  two  centuries  ago. 

Up  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps,  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  flambeau  pre- 
ceded, went  from  his  carriage,  sufficiently  disturbing  the  darkness  to  elicit  loud 
remonstrance  from  an  owl  in  the  roof  of  the  great  pile  of  stable  building  away 
among  the  trees.  All  else  was  so  quiet,  that  the  flambeau  carried  up  the  steps, 
and  the  other  flambeau  held  at  the  great  door,  burnt  as  if  they  were  in  a close 
room  of  state,  instead  of  being  in  the  open  night- air.  Other  sound  than  the 
owl’s  voice  there  was  none,  save  the  falling  of  a fountain  into  its  stone  basin ; for, 
it  was  one  of  those  dark  nights  that  hold  their  breath  by  the  hour  together,  and 
then  heave  a long  low  sigh,  and  hold  their  breath  again. 

The  great  door  clanged  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  the  Marquis  crossed  a hall 
grim  with  certain  old  boar-spears,  swords,  and  knives  of  the  chase  ; grimmer  with 
certain  heavy  riding-rods  and  riding-whips,  of  which  many  a peasant,  gone  to  hi» 
benefactor  Death,  had  felt  the  weight  when  his  lord  was  angry. 


68 


A Tale  of  T wo  Cities . 


Avoiding  the  larger  rooms,  which  were  dark  and  made  fast  for  the  night,  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  with  his  flambeau-bearer  going  on  before,  went  up  the  stair- 
case to  a door  in  a corridor.  This  thrown  open,  admitted  him  to  his  own  private 
apartment  of  three  rooms  : his  bed-chamber  and  two  others.  High  vaulted  rooms 
with  cool  uncarpeted  floors,  great  dogs  upon  the  hearths  for  the  burning  of  wood 
in  winter  time,  and  all  luxuries  befitting  the  state  of  a marquis  in  a luxurious  age 
and  country.  The  fashion  of  the  last  Louis  but  one,  of  the  line  that  was  never 
to  break — the  fourteenth  Louis — was  conspicuous  in  their  rich  furniture  ; but,  it 
was  diversified  by  many  objects  that  were  illustrations  of  old  pages  in  the  history 
of  France. 

A supper-table  was  laid  for  two,  in  tne  third  of  the  rooms ; a round  room,  in 
one  of  the  chateau’s  four  extinguisher-topped  towers.  A small  lofty  room,  with 
its  window  wide  open,  and  the  wooden  jalousie-blinds  closed,  so  that  the  dark 
night  only  showed  in  slight  horizontal  lines  of  black,  alternating  with  their 
broad  lines  of  stone  colour. 

“ My  nephew,”  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  at  the  supper  preparation  ; “ they 
said  he  was  not  arrived.” 

Nor  was  he ; but,  he  had  been  expected  with  Monseigneur. 

“ Ah  ! It  is  not  probable  he  will  arrive  to-night ; nevertheless,  leave  the  table 
as  it  is.  I shall  be  ready  in  a quarter  of  an  hour.” 

In  a quarter  of  an  hour  Monseigneur  was  ready,  and  sat  down  alone  to  his 
sumptuous  and  choice  supper.  His  chair  was  opposite  to  the  window,  and  he 
had  taken  his  soup,  and  was  raising  his  glass  of  Bordeaux  to  his  lips,  when  he 
put  it  down. 

“What  is  that  ?”  he  calmly  asked,  looking  with  attention  at  the  horizontal  lines 
of  black  and  stone  colour. 

“ Monseigneur  ? That  ?” 

“ Outside  the  blinds.  Open  the  blinds.” 

It  was  done. 

“ Well  ?” 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  nothing.  The  trees  and  the  night  are  all  that  are  here.” 
The  servant  who  spoke,  had  thrown  the  blinds  wide,  had  looked  out  into  the  vacant 
darkness,  and  stood,  with  that  blank  behind  him,  looking  round  for  instructions. 

“ Good,”  said  the  imperturbable  master.  “ Close  them  again.” 

That  was  done  too,  and  the  Marquis  went  on  with  his  supper.  He  was  half 
way  through  it,  when  he  again  stopped  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  hearing  the 
sound  of  wheels.  It  came  on  briskly,  and  came  up  to  the  front  of  the  chateau. 
“Ask  who  is  arrived.” 

It  was  the  nephew  of  Monseigneur.  He  had  been  some  few  leagues  behind 
Monseigneur,  early  in  the  afternoon.  He  had  diminished  the  distance  rapidly, 
but  not  so  rapidly  as  to  come  up  with  Monseigneur  on  the  road.  He  had  heard 
of  Monseigneur,  at  the  posting-houses,  as  being  before  him. 

He  was  to  be  told  (said  Monseigneur)  that  supper  awaited  him  then  and  there, 
and  that  he  was  prayed  to  come  to  it.  In  a little  while  he  came.  He  had  been 
known  in  England  as  Charles  Darnay. 

Monseigneur  received  him  in  a courtly  manner,  but  they  did  not  shake  hands. 

“ You  left  Paris  yesterday,  sir  ?”  he  said  to  Monseigneur,  as  he  took  his  seat  ai 
table. 

“ Yesterday.  And  you  ?” 

“ I come  direct.” 

“ From  London  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You  have  been  a long  time  coming,”  said  the  Marquis,  with  a smile. 


Monseigneur  and  his  Nephew. 


69 


“ On  the  contraiy ; I come  direct.” 

“ Pardon  me ! I mean,  not  a long  time  on  the  journey ; a long  time  intending 
the  journey.” 

“ I have  been  detained  by” — the  nephew  stopped  a moment  in  his  answer — 
“various  business.” 

“ Without  doubt,”  said  the  polished  uncle. 

So  long  as  a servant  was  present,  no  other  words  passed  between  them.  When 
coffee  had  been  served  and  they  were  alone  together,  the  nephew,  looking  at 
the  uncle  and  meeting  the  eves  of  the  face  that  was  like  a fine  mask,  opened  a 
conversation. 

“ I have  come  back,  sir,  as  you  anticipate,  pursuing  the  object  that  took  me 
away.  It  carried  me  into  great  and  unexpected  peril ; but  it  is  a sacred  object, 
and  if  it  had  carried  me  to  death  I hope  it  would  have  sustained  me.” 

“ Not  to  death,”  said  the  uncle ; “ it  is  not  necessary  to  say,  to  death.” 

“I  doubt,  sir,”  returned  the  nephew,  “whether,  if  it  had  carried  me  to  the 
utmost  brink  of  death,  you  would  have  cared  to  stop  me  there.” 

The  deepened  marks  in  the  nose,  and  the  lengthening  of  the  fine  straight  lines 
in  the  cruel  face,  looked  ominous  as  to  that ; the  uncle  made  a graceful  gesture 
of  protest,  which  was  so  clearly  a slight  form  of  good  breeding  that  it  was  not 
reassuring. 

“Indeed,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  “for  anything  I know,  you  may  have 
expressly  worked  to  give  a more  suspicious  appearance  to  the  suspicious  circum- 
stances that  surrounded  me.” 

“ No,  no,  no,”  said  the  uncle,  pleasantly. 

“ But,  however  that  may  be,”  resumed  the  nephew,  glancing  at  him  with  deep 
distrust,  “ 1 know  that  your  diplomacy  would  stop  me  by  any  means,  and  would 
know  no  scruple  as  to  means.” 

“My  friend,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  uncle,  with  a fine  pulsation  in  the  two 
marks.  “ Do  me  the  favour  to  recall  that  I told  you  so,  long  ago.” 

“I  recall  it.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  the  Marquis — very  sweetly  indeed. 

His  tone  lingered  in  the  air,  almost  like  the  tone  of  a musical  instrument. 

“ In  effect,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  “I  believe  it  to  beat  once  your  bad 
fortune,  and  my  good  fortune,  that  has  kept  me  out  of  a prison  in  France  here.” 
“I  do  not  quite  understand,”  returned  the  uncle,  sipping  his  coffee.  “ Dare  I 
ask  you  to  explain  ?” 

“ I believe  that  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace  with  the  Court,  and  had  not  been 
overshadowed  by  that  cloud  for  years  past,  a letter  de  cachet  would  have  sent  me 
to  some  fortress  indefinitely.” 

“ It  is  possible,”  said  the  uncle,  with  great  calmness.  “ For  the  honour  of  the 
family,  I could  even  resolve  to  incommode  you  to  that  extent.  Pray  excuse  me  !” 
“I  perceive  that,  happily  for  me,  the  Reception  of  the  day  before  yesterday 
was,  as  usual,  a cold  one,”  observed  the  nephew. 

“ I would  not  say  happily,  my  friend,”  returned  the  uncle,  with  refined  polite- 
ness ; “I  would  not  be  sure  of  that.  A good  opportunity  for  consideration, 
surrounded  by  the  advantages  of  solitude,  might  influence  your  destiny  to  far 
greater  advantage  than  you  influence  it  for  yourself.  But  it  is  useless  to  discuss 
the  question.  I am,  as  you  say,  at  a disadvantage.  These  little  instruments  of 
correction,  these  gentle  aids  to  the  power  and  honour  of  families,  these  slight 
favours  that  might  so  incommode  you,  are  only  to  be  obtained  now  by  interest 
and  importunity.  They  are  sought  by  so  many,  and  they  are  granted  (compara- 
tively) to  so  few  ! It  used  not  to  be  so,  but  France  in  ali  such  things  is  changed 
f#T  the  worse.  Our  not  remote  ancestors  held  the  right  of  life  and  death  over  th$ 


7° 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


surrounding  vulgar.  From  this  room,  many  such  dogs  have  been  taken  out  to  be 
hanged  ; in  the  next  room  (my  bedroom),  one  fellow,  to  our  knowledge,  was 
poniarded  on  the  spot  for  professing  some  insolent  delicacy  respecting  his  daughter 
— his  daughter  ? We  have  lost  many  privileges ; a new  philosophy  has  become 
the  mode  ; and  the  assertion  of  our  station,  in  these  days,  might  (I  do  not  go 
so  far  as  to  say  would,  but  might)  cause  us  real  inconvenience.  All  very  bad, 
very  bad ! ” 

The  Marquis  took  a gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shook  his  head ; as 
elegantly  despondent  as  he  could  becomingly  be  of  a country  still  containing  him- 
self, that  great  means  of  regeneration. 

“We  have  so  asserted  our  station,  both  in  the  old  time  and  in  the  modern 
time  also,”  said  the  nephew,  gloomily,  “that  I believe  our  name  to  be  more 
detested  than  any  name  in  France.” 

“ Let  us  hope  so,”  said  the  uncle.  “ Detestation  of  the  high  is  the  involuntary 
homage  of  the  low.” 

“ There  is  not,”  pursued  the  nephew,  in  his  former  tone,  “ a face  I can  look  at, 
in  all  this  country  round  about  us,  which  looks  at  me  with  any  deference  on  it  but 
the  dark  deference  of  fear  and  slavery.” 

“ A compliment,”  said  the  Marquis,  “ to  the  grandeur  of  the  family,  merited  by 
the  manner  in  which  the  family  has  sustained  its  grandeur.  Hah  I”  And  he  took 
another  gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  lightly  crossed  his  legs. 

But,  when  his  nephew,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table,  covered  his  eyes  thought- 
fully and  dejectedly  with  his  hand,  the  fine  mask  looked  at  him  sideways  with  a 
stronger  concentration  of  keenness,  closeness,  and  dislike,  than  was  comportable 
with  its  wearer’s  assumption  of  indifference. 

“ Repression  is  the  only  lasting  philosophy.  The  dark  deference  of  fear  and 
slavery,  my  friend,”  observed  the  Marquis,  “ will  keep  the  dogs  obedient  to  the 
whip,  as  long  as  this  roof,”  looking  up  to  it,  “ shuts  out  the  sky.” 

That  might  not  be  so  long  as  the  Marquis  supposed.  If  a picture  of  the 
chateau  as  it  was  to  be  a very  few  years  hence,  and  of  fifty  like  it  as  they  too  were 
to  be  a very  few  years  hence,  could  have  been  shown  to  him  that  night,  he  might 
have  been  at  a loss  to  claim  his  own  from  the  ghastly,  fire-charred,  plunder- 
wrecked  ruins.  As  for  the  roof  he  vaunted,  he  might  have  found  that  shutting 
out  the  sky  in  a new  way — to  wit,  for  ever,  from  the  eyes  of  the  bodies  into  which 
its  lead  was  fired,  out  of  the  barrels  of  a hundred  thousand  muskets. 

“ Meanwhile,”  said  the  Marquis,  “ I will  preserve  the  honour  and  repose  of  the 
family,  if  you  will  not.  But  you  must  be  fatigued.  Shall  we  terminate  our  con- 
ference for  the  night  ?” 

“ A moment  more.” 

“ An  hour,  if  you  please.” 

“ Sir,”  said  the  nephew,  “we  have  done  wrong,  and  are  reaping  the  fruits  of 
wrong.” 

“ We  have  done  wrong  ?”  repeated  the  Marquis,  with  an  inquiring  smile,  and 
delicately  pointing,  first  to  his  nephew,  then  to  himself. 

“ Our  family  ; our  honourable  family,  whose  honour  is  of  so  much  account  to 
both  of  us,  in  such  different  ways.  Even  in  my  father’s  time,  we  did  a world  of 
wrong,  injuring  every  human  creature  who  came  between  us  and  our  pleasure, 
whatever  it  was.  Why  need  I speak  of  my  father’s  time,  when  it  is  equally  yours  ? 
Can  I separate  my  father’s  twin-brother,  joint  inheritor,  and  next  successor,  from 
htmself  ?” 

“ Death  has  done  that ! ” said  the  Marquis. 

44  And  has  left  me,”  answered  the  nephew,  “ bound  to  a system  that  is  frightful  to 
wf,  responsible  for  it,  but  powerless  in  it ; seeking  to  execute  the  last  request  of 


The  impolite  New  School \ 


7» 


dear  mother’s  lips,  and  obey  the  last  look  of  my  dear  mother’s  eyes,  which 
implored  me  to  have  mercy  and  to  redress  ; and  tortured  by  seeking  assistance  and 
power  in  vain.” 

“ Seeking  them  from  me,  my  nephew,”  said  the  Marquis,  touching  him  on  the 
breast  with  his  forefinger — they  were  new  standing  by  the  hearth — “ you  will  for 
ever  seek  them  in  vain,  be  assured.” 

Every  fine  straight  line  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  his  face,  was  cruelly,  craftily, 
and  closely  compressed,  while  he  stood  looking  quietly  at  his  nephew,  with  his 
snuff-box  in  his  hand.  Once  again  he  touched  him  on  the  breast,  as  though  his 
finger  were  the  fine  point  of  a small  sword,  with  which,  in  delicate  finesse,  he  ran 
him  through  the  body,  and  said, 

“My  friend,  I will  die,  perpetuating  the  system  under  which  I have  lived.” 
When  he  had  said  it,  he  took  a culminating  pinch  of  snuff,  and  put  his  box  in 
his  pocket. 

“ Better  to  be  a rational  creature,”  he  added  then,  after  ringing  a small  bell 
Dn  the  table,  “and  accept  your  natural  destiny.  But  you  are  lost,  Monsieur 
Charles,  I see.” 

“This  property  and  France  are  lost  to  me,”  said  the  nephew,  sadly;  “I 
renounce  them.” 

“ Are  they  both  yours  to  renounce  ? France  may  be,  but  is  the  property  ? It 
is  scarcely  worth  mentioning  ; but,  is  it  yet  ?” 

“ I had  no  intention,  in  the  words  I used,  to  claim  it  yet.  If  it  passed  to  me 

from  you,  to-morrow ” 

“ Which  I have  the  vanity  to  hope  is  not  probable.” 

“ — or  twenty  years  hence ” 

“You  do  me  too  much  honour,”  said  the  Marquis;  “still,  I prefer  that 
supposition.” 

“ — I would  abandon  it,  and  live  otherwise  and  elsewhere.  It  is  little  to 
relinquish.  What  is  it  but  a wilderness  of  misery  and  ruin  ! ” 

“ Hah  !”  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  round  the  luxurious  room. 

“ To  the  eye  it  is  fair  enough,  here  ; but  seen  in  its  integrity,  under  the  sky,  and 
by  the  daylight,  it  is  a crumbling  tower  of  waste,  mismanagement,  extortion,  debt, 
mortgage,  oppression,  hunger,  nakedness,  and  suffering.” 

“ Hah  ! ” said  the  Marquis  again,  in  a well-satisfied  manner. 

“ If  it  ever  becomes  mine,  it  shall  be  put  into  some  hands  better  qualified  to 
free  it  slowly  (if  such  a thing  is  possible)  from  the  weight  that  drags  it  down,  so 
that  the  miserable  people  who  cannot  leave  it  and  who  have  been  long  wrung  to 
the  last  point  of  endurance,  may,  in  another  generation,  suffer  less  ; but  it  is  not 
for  me.  There  is  a curse  on  it,  and  on  all  this  land.” 

“ And  you  ?”  said  the  uncle.  “ Forgive  my  curiosity ; do  you,  under  your  new 
philosophy,  graciously  intend  to  live  ?” 

“ I must  do,  to  live,  what  others  of  my  countrymen,  even  with  nobility  at  their 
backs,  may  have  to  do  some  day — work.” 

“ In  England,  for  example  ?” 

“ Yes.  The  family  honour,  sir,  is  safe  from  me  in  this  country.  The  family 
name  can  suffer  from  me  in  no  other,  for  I bear  it  in  no  other.” 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  had  caused  the  adjoining  bedchamber  to  be  lighted.  It 
now  shone  brightly,  through  the  door  of  communication.  The  Marquis  looked 
that  way,  and  listened  for  the  retreating  step  of  his  valet. 

“ England  is  very  attractive  to  you,  seeing  how  indifferently  you  have  prospered 
there,”  he  observed  then,  turning  his  calm  face  to  his  nephew  with  a smile. 

“I  have  already  said,  that  for  my  prospering  there,  I am  sensible  I may  bfl 
indebted  to  you,  sir.  For  the  rest,  it  is  my  Refuge.” 


7* 


J Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


“ They  say,  those  boastful  English,  that  it  is  the  Refuge  of  many  Yol  knom 
a compatriot  who  has  found  a Refuge  there  ? A Doctor  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“With  a daughter  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Marquis.  “ You  are  fatigued.  Good  night  ln 

As  he  bent  his  head  in  his  most  courtly  manner,  there  was  a secrecy  in  his  sink- 
ing face,  and  he  conveyed  an  air  of  mystery  to  those  words,  which  struck  the  eyes 
and  ears  of  his  nephew  forcibly.  At  the  same  time,  the  thin  straight  lines  of  the 
setting  of  the  eyes,  and  the  thin  straight  lips,  and  the  markings  in  the  nose,  curved 
with  a sarcasm  that  looked  handsomely  diabolic. 

“ Yes,”  repeated  the  Marquis.  “ A Doctor  with  a daughter.  Yes.  So  com 
mences  the  new  philosophy  ! You  are  fatigued.  Good  night !” 

It  would  have  been  of  as  much  avail  to  interrogate  any  stone  face  outside  tin 
chateau  as  to  interrogate  that  face  of  his.  The  nephew  looked  at  him,  in  vain,  in 
passing  on  to  the  door. 

“ Good  night !”  said  the  uncle.  “ I look  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  in 
the  morning.  Good  repose  ! Light  Monsieur  my  nephew  to  his  chamber  there ; 

- — And  burn  Monsieur  my  nephew  in  his  bed,  if  you  will,”  he  added  to  himself, 
before  he  rang  his  little  bell  again,  and  summoned  his  valet  to  his  own  bedroom. 

The  valet  come  and  gone,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  loose 
chamber-robe,  to  prepare  himself  gently  for  sleep,  that  hot  still  night.  Rustling 
about  the  room,  his  softly-slippered  feet  making  no  noise  on  the  floor,  he  moved 
like  a refined  tiger : — looked  like  some  enchanted  marquis  of  the  impenitently 
wicked  sort,  in  story,  whose  periodical  change  into  tiger  form  was  either  just  going 
olf,  or  just  coming  on. 

He  moved  from  end  to  end  of  his  voluptuous  bedroom,  looking  again  at  the 
scraps  of  the  day’s  journey  that  came  unbidden  into  his  mind ; the  slow  toil  up  the 
hill  at  sunset,  the  setting  sun,  the  descent,  the  mill,  the  prison  on  the  crag,  the  little 
village  in  the  hollow,  the  peasants  at  the  fountain,  and  the  mender  of  roads  with 
his  blue  cap  pointing  out  the  chain  under  the  carnage.  That  fountain  suggested 
the  Paris  fountain,  the  little  bundle  lying  on  the  step,  the  women  bending  over  it, 
and  the  tall  man  with  his  arms  up,  crying,  “ Dead  !” 

“ I am  cool  now,”  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  “ and  may  go  to  bed.” 

So,  leaving  only  one  light  burning  on  the  large  hearth,  he  let  his  thin  gauze 
curtains  fall  around  him,  and  heard  the  night  break  its  silence  with  a long  sigh  as> 
he  composed  himself  to  sleep. 

The  stone  faces  on  the  outer  walls  stared  blindly  at  the  black  night  for  three 
• heavy  hours  ; for  three  heavy  hours,  the  horses  in  the  stables  rattled  at  their  racks, 
the  dogs  barked,  and  the  owl  made  a noise  with  very  little  resemblanceTn  it  to  the 
noise  conventionally  assigned  to  the  owl  by  men-poets.  But  it  is  the  obstinate 
custom  of  such  creatures  hardly  ever  to  say  what  is  set  down  for  them . 

For  three  heavy  hours,  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau,  lion  and  human,  stared 
blindly  at  the  night.  Dead  darkness  lay  on  all  the  landscape,  dead  darkness  added 
its  own  hush  to  the  hushing  dust  on  all  the  roads.  The  burial-place  had  got  to  the 
pass  that  its  little  heaps  of  poor  grass  were  undistinguishable  from  one  another  ; 
the  figure  on  the  Cross  might  have  come  down,  for  anything  that  could  be  seen  o 1 
it.  In  the  village,  taxers  and  taxed  were  fast  asleep.  Dreaming,  perhaps,  of  ban- 
quets, as  the  starved  usually  do,  and  of  ease  and  rest,  as  the  driven  slave  and  the 
yoked  ox  may,  its  lean  inhabitants  slept  soundly,  and  were  fed  and  freed. 

The  fountain  in  the  village  flowed  unseen  and  unheard,  and  the  fountain  at  the 
chateau  dropped  unseen  and  unheard — both  melting  away,  like  the  minutes  that 
were  falling  from  the  spring  of  Time — through  three  dark  hours.  Then,  the  grey 


A Summer  Night . 7J 

water  ol  both  began  to  be  ghostly  in  the  light,  and  the  eyes  of  the  stone  faces  of 
the  chateau  were  opened. 

Lighter  and  lighter,  until  at  last  the  sun  touched  the  tops  of  the  still  trees,  and 
poured  its  radiance  over  the  hill.  In  the  glow,  the  water  of  the  chateau  fountain 
seemed  to  turn  to  blood,  and  the  stone  faces  crimsoned.  The  carol  of  the  birds 
was  loud  and  high,  and,  on  the  weath  er-beaten  sill  of  the  great  window  of  the  bed' 
chamber  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  one  little  bird  sang  its  sweetest  song  with  all  i s 
might.  At  this,  the  nearest  stone  face  seemed  to  stare  amazed,  and,  with  open 
mouth  and  dropped  under-jaw,  looked  awe-stricken. 

Now,  the  sun  was  full  up,  and  movement  began  in  the  village.  Casement  win- 
dows opened,  crazy  doors  were  unbarred,  and  people  came  forth  shivering — 
chilled,  as  yet,  by  the  new  sweet  air.  Then  began  the  rarely  lightened  toil  of  the 
day  among  the  village  population.  Some,  to  the  fountain  ; some,  to  the  fields  ; 
men  and  women  here,  to  dig  and  delve  ; men  and  women  there,  to  see  to  the  poor 
live  stock,  and  lead  the  bony  cows  out,  to  such  pasture  as  could  be  found  by  the 
roadside.  In  the  church  and  at  the  Cross,  a kneeling  figure  or  two  ; attendant 
on  the  latter  prayers,  the  led  cow,  trying  for  a breakfast  among  the  weeds  at  its 
foot. 

The  chateau  awoke  later,  as  became  its  quality,  but  awoke  gradually  and  surely. 
First,  the  lonely  boar-spears  and  knives  of  the  chase  had  been  reddened  as  of  old : 
then,  had  gleamed  trenchant  in  the  morning  sunshine  ; now,  doors  and  windcws 
were  thrown  open,  horses  in  their  stables  looked  round  over  their  shoulders  at  the 
light  and  freshness  pouring  in  at  doorways,  leaves  sparkled  and  rustled  at  iron- 
grated  windows,  dogs  pulled  hard  at  their  chains,  and  reared  impatient  to  be 
loosed. 

All  these  trivial  incidents  belonged  to  the  routine  of  life,  and  the  return  of 
morning.  Surely,  not  so  the  ringing  of  the  great  bell  of  the  chateau,  nor  the  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  stairs  ; nor  the  hurried  figures  on  the  terrace  ; nor  the 
booting  and  tramping  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  nor  the  quick  saddling  of 
horses  and  riding  away  ? 

What  winds  conveyed  this  hurry  to  the  grizzled  mender  of  roads,  already  at  work 
on  the  hill-top  beyond  the  village,  with  his  day’s  dinner  (not  much  to  carry)  lying 
in  a bundle  that  it  was  worth  no  crow’s  while  to  peck  at,  on  a heap  of  stones  ? 
Had  the  birds,  carrying  some  grains  of  it  to  a distance,  dropped  one  over  him  as 
they  sow  chance  seeds  ? Whether  or  no,  the  mender  of  roads  ran,  on  the  sultry 
morning,  as  if  for  his  life,  down  the  hill,  knee-high  in  dust,  and  never  slopped  till 
he  got  to  the  fountain. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  the  fountain,  standing  about  in  their  de- 
pressed manner,  and  whispering  low,  but  showing  no  other  emotions  than  grim 
curiosity  and  surprise.  The  led  cows,  hastily  brought  in  and  tethered  to  anything 
that  would  hold  them,  were  looking  stupidly  on,  or  lying  down  chewing  the  cud 
of  nothing  particularly  repaying  their  trouble,  which  they  had  picked  up  in  their 
interrupted  saunter.  Some  of  the  people  of  the  chateau,  and  some  of  those  of  the 
posting-house,  and  all  the  taxing  authorities,  were  armed  more  or  less,  and  were 
crowded  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  street  in  a purposeless  way,  that  was  highly 
fraught  with  nothing.  Already,  the  mender  of  roads  had  penetrated  into  the 
midst  of  a group  of  fifty  particular  friends,  and  was  smiting  himself  in  the  breast 
with  his  blue  cap.  What  did  all  this  portend,  and  what  portended  the  swift  hoist- 
ing-up of  Monsieur  Gabelle  behind  a servant  on  horseback,  and  the  conveying 
away  of  the  said  Gabelle  (double-laden  though  the  horse  was),  at  a gallop,  like  a 
new  version  of  the  German  ballad  of  Leonora  ? 

It  portended  that  there  was  one  stone  face  too  many,  up  at  the  chateau. 

The  Gorgon  had  surveyed  the  building  again  in  the  night,  and  had  added  th« 


74  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

one  stone  face  wanting  ; the  stone  face  for  which  it  had  waited  through  about  two 
hundred  years. 

It  Jay  back  on  the  pillow  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  It  was  like  a fine  mask, 
suddenly  startled,  made  angry,  and  petrified.  Driven  home  into  the  heart  of 
the  stone  figure  attached  to  it,  was  a knife.  Round  its  hilt  was  a frill  of  paper, 
on  which  was  scrawled: 

“ Drive  him  fast  to  his  tomb . This,  from  JACQUES.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

TWO  PROMISES. 

More  months,  to  the  number  of  twelve,  had  come  and  gone,  and  Mr.  Charles 
Damay  was  established  in  England  as  a higher  teacher  of  the  French  language 
who  was  conversant  with  French  literature.  In  this  age,  he  would  have  been  a 
Professor ; in  that  age,  he  was  a Tutor.  He  read  with  young  men  who  could  find 
any  leisure  and  interest  for  the  study  of  a living  tongue  spoken  all  over  the  world, 
and  he  cultivated  a taste  for  its  stores  of  knowledge  and  fancy.  He  could  write 
of  them,  besides,  in  sound  English,  and  render  them  into  sound  English.  Such 
masters  were  not  at  that  time  easily  found  ; Princes  that  had  been,  andK  ngs  that 
were  to  be,  were  not  yet  of  the  Teacher  class,  and  no  ruined  nobility  had  dropped 
out  of  Tellson’s  ledgers,  to  turn  cooks  and  carpenters.  As  a tutor,  whose  attain- 
ments made  the  student’s  way  unusually  pleasant  and  profitable,  and  as  an  elegant 
translator  who  brought  something  to  his  work  besides  mere  dictionary  knowledge, 
young  Mr.  Darnay  soon  became  known  and  encouraged.  He  was  w^ell 
acquainted,  moreover,  with  the  circumstances  of  his  country,  and  those  were  of 
ever-growing  interest.  So,  with  great  perseverance  and  untiring  industry,  he 
piospered. 

In  London,  he  had  expected  neither  to  walk  on  pavements  of  gold,  nor  to  lie 
on  beds  of  roses  ; if  he  had  had  any  such  exalted  “expectation,  he  would  not  have 
prospered.  He  had  expected  labour,  and  he  found  it,  and  did  it,  and  made  the 
best  of  it.  In  this,  his  prosperity  consisted. 

A certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Cambridge,  where  he  read  with 
undergraduates  as  a sort  of  tolerated  smuggler  who  drove  a contraband  trade  in 
European  languages,  instead  of  conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through  the  Custom- 
house. The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in  London. 

Now,  from  the  days  when  it  was  always  summer  in  Eden,  to  these  days  when  it 
is  mostly  winter  in  fallen  latitudes,  the  world  of  a man  has  invariably  gone  one 
way — Charles  Darnay ’s  way — the  way  of  the  love  of  a woman. 

He  had  loved  Lucie  Manette  from  the  hour  of  his  danger.  He  had  never  heard 
a sound  so  sweet  and  dear  as  the  sound  of  her  compassionate  voice  ; he  had  never 
seen  a face  so  tenderly  beautiful,  as  hers  w7hen  it  was  confronted  with  his  own  on 
the  edge  of  the  grave  that  had  been  dug  for  him.  But,  he  had  not  yet  spoken  to 
her  on  the  subject ; the  assassination  at  the  deserted  chateau  far  away  beyond  the 
heaving  water  and  the  long,  long,  dusty  roads — the  solid  stone  chateau  which  had 
itself  become  the  mere  mist  of  a dream — had  been  done  a year,  and  he  had  never 
yet,  by  so  much  as  a single  spoken  word,  disclosed  to  her  the  state  of  his  heart. 

That  he  had  his  reasons  for  this,  he  knew  full  well.  It  was  again  a summer  day 
when,  lately  arrived  in  London  from  his  college  occupation,  he  turned  into  the 
quiet  comer  in  Soho,  bent  on  seeking  an  opportunity  of  opening  his  mind  to 


Charles  Damay  s declaration . 7J 

Doctor  Manette.  It  was  the  close  of  the  summer  day,  and  he  knew  I ucie  to  b« 
out  with  Miss  Press. 

He  found  the  Doctor  reading  in  his  arm-chair  at  a window.  The  energy  which 
had  at  once  supported  him  under  his  old  sufferings  and  aggravated  their  sharpness, 
had  been  gradually  restored  to  him.  He  was  now  a very  energetic  man  indeed, 
with  great  firmness  of  purpose,  strength  of  resolution,  and  vigour  of  action.  In 
his  recovered  energy  he  was  sometimes  a little  fitful  and  sudden,  as  he  had  at  first 
been  in  the  exercise  of  his  other  recovered  faculties ; but,  this  had  never  been  fre- 
quently observable,  and  had  grown  more  and  more  rare. 

He  studied  much,  slept  little,  sustained  a great  deal  of  fatigue  with  ease,  and  was 
equably  cheerful.  To  him,  now  entered  Charles  Damay,  at  sight  of  whom  he  laid 
aside  his  book  and  held  out  his  hand. 

“ Charles  Darnay ! I rejoice  to  see  you.  We  have  been  counting  on  your  return 
these  three  or  four  days  past.  Mr.  Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton  were  both  here 
yesterday,  and  both  made  you  out  to  be  more  than  due.” 

“ I am  obliged  to  them  for  their  interest  in  the  matter,”  he  answered,  a little 

coldly  as  to  them,  though  very  warmly  as  to  the  Doctor.  “ Miss  Manette ” 

“ Is  well,”  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stopped  short,  “ and  your  return  will  delight 
us  all.  She  has  gone  out  on  some  household  matters,  but  will  soon  be  home.” 

“ Doctor  Manette,  I knew  she  was  from  home.  I took  the  opportunity  of  her 
being  from  home,  to  beg  to  speak  to  you.” 

There  was  a blank  silence. 

“ Yes  ? ” said  the  Doctor,  with  evident  constraint.  “ Bring  your  chair  here,  and 
speak  on.” 

He  complied  as  to  the  chair,  but  appeared  to  find  the  speaking  on  less  easy. 

“ I have  had  the  happiness,  Doctor  Manette,  of  being  so  intimate  here,”  so  he 
at  length  began,  “ for  some  year  and  a half,  that  I hope  the  topic  on  which  I am 
about  to  touch  may  not ” 

He  was  stayed  by  the  Doctor’s  putting  out  his  hand  to  stop  him.  When  he  had 
kept  it  so  a little  while,  he  said,  drawing  it  back : 

“ Is  Lucie  the  topic  ? ” 

“ She  is.” 

“ It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  her  at  any  time.  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  heai 
her  spoken  of  in  that  tone  of  yours,  Charles  Darnay.” 

“ It  is  a tone  of  fervent  admiration,  true  homage,  and  deep  love,  Doctor 
Manette  ! ” he  said  deferentially. 

There  was  another  blank  silence  before  her  father  rejoined  : 

“ I believe  it.  I do  you  justice ; I believe  it.” 

His  constraint  was  so  manifest,  and  it  was  so  manifest,  too,  that  it  originated  in 
an  unwillingness  to  approach  the  subject,  that  Charles  Damay  hesitated. 

“ Shall  I go  on,  sir  ?” 

Another  blank. 

“Yes,  go  on.” 

“You  anticipate  what  I would  say,  though  you  cannot  know  how  earnestly  I 
say  it,  how  earnestly  I feel  it,  without  knowing  my  secret  heart,  and  the  hopes  and 
fears  and  anxieties  with  which  it  has  long  been  laden.  Dear  Doctor  Manette, 
I love  your  daughter  fondly,  dearly,  disinterestedly,  devotedly.  If  ever  there  were 
love  in  the  world,  I love  her.  You  have  loved  yourself ; let  your  old  love  speak 
for  me ! ” 

The  Doctor  .*at  with  his  face  turned  away,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground* 
At  the  last  words,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  again,  hurriedly,  and  cried : 

“ Not  that,  sir  ! Let  that  be  ! I adjure  you,  do  not  recall  that ! ” 

His  cry  ’Was  so  like  a cry  of  actual  pain,  that  it  rang  in  Charles  Damay’s  ean 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


76 

Ion  A after  he  had  ceased.  He  motioned  with  the  hand  he  had  extended,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  an  appeal  to  Darnay  to  pause.  The  latter  so  received  it,  and 
remained  silent. 

“I  ask  your  pardon,’’  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued  tone,  after  some  moments. 

0 I do  not  doubt  your  loving  Lucie ; you  may  be  satisfied  of  it.” 

He  turned  towards  him  in  his  chair,  but  did  not  look  at  him,  or  raise  his  eyes. 
His  chin  dropped  upon  his  hand,  and  his  white  hair  overshadowed  his  face : 

“ Have  you  spoken  to  Lucie  ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor  written  ?” 

“ Never.” 

“It  would  be  ungenerous  to  affect  not  to  know  that  your  self-denial  is  to  be 
referred  to  your  consideration  for  her  father.  Her  father  thanks  you.” 

He  offered  his  hand ; but  his  eyes  did  not  go  with  it. 

“ I know,”  said  Darnay,  respectfully,  “ how  can  I fail  to  know,  Doctor  Manette, 

1 who  have  seen  you  together  from  day  to  day,  that  between  you  and  Miss 
Manette  there  is  an  affection  so  unusual,  so  touching,  so  belonging  to  the  circum- 
stances in  which  it  has  been  nurtured,  that  it  can  have  few  parallels,  even  in  the 
tenderness  between  a father  and  child.  I know,  Dr.  Manette — how  can  I fail  to 
know — that,  mingled  with  the  affection  and  duty  of  a daughter  who  has  become 
a woman,  there  is,  in  her  heart,  towards  you,  all  the  love  and  reliance  of  infancy 
itself.  I know  that,  as  in  her  childhood  she  had  no  parent,  so  she  is  now  devoted 
to  you  with  all  the  constancy  and  fervour  of  her  present  years  and  character,  united 
to  the  trustfulness  and  attachment  of  the  early  days  in  which  you  were  lost  to  her. 
I know  perfectly  well  that  if  you  had  been  restored  to  her  from  the  world  beyond 
this  life,  you  could  hardly  be  invested,  in  her  sight,  with  a more  sacred  character 
than  that  in  which  you  are  always  with  her.  I know  that  when  she  is  clinging  to 
you,  the  hands  of  baby,  girl,  and  woman,  all  in  one,  are  round  your  neck.  I know 
that  in  loving  you  she  sees  and  loves  her  mother  at  her  own  age,  sees  and  loves 
you  at  my  age,  loves  her  mother  broken-hearted,  loves  you  through  your  dreadful 
trial  and  in  your  blessed  restoration.  I have  known  this,  night  and  day,  since  I 
have  known  you  in  your  home.” 

Her  father  sat  silent,  with  his  face  bent  down.  His  breathing  was  a little 
quickened  ; but  he  repressed  all  other  signs  of  agitation. 

“Dear  Doctor  Manette,  always  knowing  this,  always  seeing  her  and  you  with 
this  hallowed  light  about  you,  I have  forborne,  and  forborne,  as  long  as  it  was  in 
the  nature  of  man  to  do  it.  I have  felt,  and  do  even  now  feel,  that  to  bring  my 
love — even  mine — between  you,  is  to  touch  your  history  with  something  not  quite 
so  good  as  itself.  But  I love  her.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I love  her ! ” 

“I  believe  it,”  answered  her  father,  mournfully.  “I  have  thought  so  before 
now.  I believe  it.” 

“ But,  do  not  believe,”  said  Darnay,  upon  whose  ear  the  mournful  voice  struck 
with  a reproachful  sound,  “that  if  my  fortune  were  so  cast  as  that,  being  one  day 
so  happy  as  to  make  her  my  wife,  I must  at  any  time  put  any  separation  between 
her  and  you,  I could  or  would  breathe  a word  of  what  I now  say.  Besides  that  I 
should  know  it  to  be  hopeless,  I should  know  it  to  be  a baseness.  If  I had  any 
such  possibility,  even  at  a remote  distance  of  years,  harboured  in  my  thoughts, 
and  hidden  in  my  heart — if  it  ever  had  been  there — if  it  ever  could  be  there — • 
L could  not  now  touch  this  honoured  hand.” 

He  laid  his  own  upon  it  as  he  spoke. 

“No,  dear  Doctor  Manette.  Like  you,  a voluntary  exile  from  France ; like 
you,  driven  from  it  by  its  distractions,  oppressions,  and  miseries ; like  you,  striving 
to  live  away  fron  it  by  my  own  exertions,  and  trusting  in  a happier  future ; I 


Agreed  upon . 


77 


look  only  to  sharing  your  fortunes,  sharing  your  life  and  home,  and  being  faithful 
to  you  to  the  death.  Not  to  divide  with  Lucie  her  privilege  as  your  child,  com- 
panion, and  friend  ; but  to  come  in  aid  of  it,  and  bind  her  closer  to  you,  if  such  a 
thing  can  be.” 

His  touch  still  lingered  on  her  father’s  hand.  Answering  the  touch  for  a 
moment,  but  not  coldly,  her  father  rested  his  hands  upon  the  i rms  of  his  chair, 
and  looked  up  for  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the  conference.  A struggle 
was  evidently  in  his  face  ; a struggle  with  that  occasional  look  which  had  a ten- 
dency in  it  to  dark  doubt  and  dread. 

4 ‘ You  speak  so  feelingly  and  so  manfully,  Charles  Darnay,  that  I thank  you 
with  all  my  heart,  and  will  open  all  my  heart — or  nearly  so.  Have  you  any  reason 
to  believe  that  Lucie  loves  you  ? ” 

“ None.  As  yet,  none.” 

“Is  it  the  immediate  object  of  this  confidence,  that  you  may  at  once  ascertain 
that,  with  my  knowledge  ? ” 

“ Not  even  so.  I might  not  have  the  hopefulness  to  do  it  for  weeks  ; I might 
(mistaken  or  not  mistaken)  have  that  hopefulness  to-morrow.” 

“ Do  you  seek  any  guidance  from  me  ?” 

44 1 ask  none,  sir.  But  I have  thought  it  possible  that  you  might  have  it  m 
your  power,  if  you  should  deem  it  right,  to  give  me  some.” 

44  Do  you  seek  any  promise  from  me ! ” 

44 1 do  seek  that.” 

44  What  is  it?” 

44 1 well  understand  that,  without  you,  I could  have  no  hope.  I well  understand 
that,  even  if  Miss  Manette  held  me  at  this  moment  in  her  innocent  heart — do  not 
think  I have  the  presumption  to  assume  so  much — I could  retain  no  place  in  it 
against  her  love  for  her  father.” 

44  If  that  be  so,  do  you  see  what,  on  the  other  hand,  is  involved  in  it  ? ” 

44 1 understand  equally  well,  that  a word  from  her  father  in  any  suitor’s  favour, 
would  outweigh  herself  and  all  the  world.  For  which  reason,  Doctor  Manette,” 
said  Darnay,  modestly  but  firmly,  44 1 would  not  ask  that  word,  to  save  my  life.” 

44 1 am  sure  of  it.  Charles  Darnay,  mysteries  arise  out  of  close  love,  as  well  as 
out  of  wide  division  ; in  the  former  case,  they  are  subtle  and  delicate,  and  difficult 
to  penetrate.  My  daughter  Lucie  is,  in  this  one  respect,  such  a mystery  to  me ; 
I can  make  no  guess  at  the  state  of  her  heart.” 

44  May  I ask,  sir,  if  you  think  she  is ” As  he  hesitated,  her  father  supplied 

the  rest. 

44  Is  sought  by  any  other  suitor  ? ” 

44  It  is  what  I meant  to  say.” 

Her  father  considered  a little  before  he  answered  : 

“You  have  seen  Mr.  Carton  here,  yourself.  Mr.  Stryver  is  here  too,  occasion- 
all)  If  it  be  at  all,  it  can  only  be  by  one  of  these.” 

44  Or  both,”  said  Darnay. 

44 1 had  not  thought  of  both;  I should  not  think  either,  likely.  You  want  a 
promise  from  me.  Tell  me  what  it  is.” 

44  It  is,  that  if  Miss  Manette  should  bring  to  you  at  any  time,  on  her  own  part, 
such  a confidence  as  I have  ventured  to  lay  before  you,  you  will  bear  testimony 
to  what  I have  said,  and  to  your  belief  in  it.  I hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  so 
well  of  me,  as  to  urge  no  influence  against  me.  I say  nothing  more  of  my  stake 
in  this  ; this  is  what  I ask.  The  condition  on  which  I ask  it,  and  which  you  have 
an  undoubted  right  to  require,  I will  observe  immediately.” 

“I  give  the  promise,”  said  the  Doctor,  “without  any  condition.  I believe 
your  obj  act  to  be,  purely  and  truthfully,  as  you  have  stated  it.  I believe  your  ii* 


7§ 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


tention  is  to  peipetuate,  and  not  to  weaken,  the  ties  between  me  and  my  othei 
and  far  dearer  self.  If  she  should  ever  tell  me  that  you  are  essential  to  her  perfect 
happiness,  I will  give  her  to  you.  If  there  were — Charles  Darnay,  if  there 
were ” 

The  young  man  had  taken  his  hand  gratefully  ; their  hands  were  joined  as  the 
Doctor  spoke  : 

“ — any  fancies,  any  reasons,  any  apprehensions,  anything  whatsoever,  new  or 
old,  against  the  man  she  really  loved—  the  direct  responsibility  thereof  not  lying 
on  his  head — they  should  all  be  obliterated  for  her  sake.  She  is  everything  to 

me  ; more  to  me  than  suffering,  more  to  me  than  wrong,  more  to  me Well  ! 

This  is  idle  talk.” 

So  strange  was  the  way  in  which  he  faded  into  silence,  and  so  strange  his  fixed 
look  when  he  had  ceased  to  speak,  that  Darnay  felt  his  own  hand  turn  cold  in  the 
hand  that  slowly  released  and  dropped  it. 

“ You  said  something  to  me,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  breaking  into  a smile. 
“ What  was  it  you  said  to  me  ? ” 

He  was  at  a loss  how  to  answer,  until  he  remembered  having  spoken  of  a con- 
dition. Relieved  as  his  mind  reverted  to  that,  he  answered  : 

“ Your  confidence  in  me  ought  to  be  returned  with  full  confidence  on  my  part. 
My  present  name,  though  but  slightly  changed  from  my  mother’s,  is  not,  as  you 
will  remember,  my  own.  I wish  to  tell  you  what  that  is,  and  why  I am  in 
England.” 

Stop  ! ” said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais. 

“I  wish  it,  that  I may  the  better  deserve  your  confidence,  and  have  no  secret 
from  you.” 

“ Stop ! ” 

For  an  instant,  the  Doctor  even  had  his  two  hands  at  his  ears  ; for  another  in- 
stant, even  had  his  two  hands  laid  on  Darnay’s  lips. 

“Tell  me  when  I ask  you,  not  now.  If  your  suit  should  prosper,  if  Lucie 
should  love  you,  you  shall  tell  me  on  your  marriage  morning.  Do  you  promise  ? 

“Willingly.” 

“ Give  me  your  hand.  She  will  be  home  directly,  and  it  is  better  she  should 
not  see  us  together  to-night.  Go  ! God  bless  you  ! ” 

It  was  dark  when  Charles  Darnay  left  him,  and  it  was  an  hour  later  and  darker 
when  Lucie  came  home  ; she  hurried  into  the  room  alone — for  Miss  Pross  had 
gone  straight  up-stairs — and  was  surprised  to  find  his  reading-chair  empty. 

“ My  father  ! ” she  called  to  him.  “ Father  dear  ! ” 

Nothing  was  said  in  answer,  but  she  heard  a low  hammering  sound  in  his  bed- 
room. Passing  lightly  across  the  intermediate  room,  she  looked  in  at  his  door 
and  came  running  back  frightened,  crying  to  herself,  with  her  blood  all  chilled, 
“ What  shah  I do  ! What  shall  I do  ! ” 

Her  uncertainty  lasted  but  a moment ; she  hurried  back,  and  tapped  at  his 
door,  and  softly  called  to  him.  The  noise  ceased  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and 
he  presently  came  out  to  her,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  together  for  a long 
time. 

She  came  down  from  her  bed,  to  look  at  him  in  his  sleep  that  night.  He  slept 
heavily,  and  his  tray  of  shoe- making  tools,  and  his  old  unfinished  work,  were  all 
as  usual. 


Mr.  Stryver  intends  to  marry. 


T9 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A COMPANION  PICTURE* 

ii  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  on  that  self-same  night,  or  morning,  to  his  jackal; 
“mix  another  bowl  of  punch ; I have  something  to  say  to  you.” 

Sydney  had  been  working  double  tides  that  night,  and  the  night  before,  and  the 
night  before  that,  and  a good  many  nights  in  succession,  making  a grand  clearance 
among  Mr.  Stryver’s  papers  before  the  setting  in  of  the  long  vacation.  The 
clearance  was  effected  at  last ; the  Stryver  arrears  were  handsomely  fetched  up  ; 
everything  was  got  rid  of  until  November  should  come  with  its  fogs  atmospheric 
and  fogs  legal,  and  bring  grist  to  the  mill  again. 

Sydney  was  none  the  livelier  and  none  the  soberer  for  so  much  application.  It 
had  taken  a deal  of  extra  wet-towelling  to  pull  him  through  the  night ; a corre- 
spondingly extra  quantity  of  wine  had  preceded  the  towelling  ; and  he  was  in  a 
very  damaged  condition,  as  he  now  pulled  his  turban  off  and  threw  it  into  the 
basin  in  which  he  had  steeped  it  at  intervals  for  the  last  six  hours. 

“ Are  you  mixing  that  other  bowl  of  punch  ? ” said  Stryver  the  portly,  with 
his  hands  in  his  waistband,  glancing  round  from  the  sofa  where  he  lay  on  his 
back. 

“ I am.” 

“ Now,  look  here  ! I am  going  to  tell  you  something  that  will  rather  surprise 
you,  and  that  perhaps  will  make  you  think  me  not  quite  as  shrewd  as  you  usually 
do  think  me.  1 intend  to  marry.” 

“ Do  you  ? ” 

“Yes.  And  not  for  money.  What  do  you  say  now  ? ” 

“ T don’t  feel  disposed  to  say  much.  Who  is  she  ? ” 

“ Guess.” 

“ Do  I know  her?  ” 

M Guess.” 

“lam  not  going  to  guess,  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning,  with  my  brains  frying 
and  sputtering  in  my  head.  If  you  want  me  to  guess,  you  must  ask  me  to  dinner.” 

“Well  then,  I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Stryver,  coming  slowly  into  a sitting  posture. 
“ Sydney,  I rather  despair  of  making  myself  intelligible  to  you,  because  you  are 
such  an  insensible  dog.” 

“And  you,”  returned  Sydney,  busy  concocting  the  punch,  “are  such  a sensitive 
and  poetical  spirit.” 

“ Come ! ” rejoined  Stryver,  laughing  boastfully,  “ though  I don’t  prefer  any 
claim  to  being  the  soul  of  Romance  (for  I hope  I know  better),  still  I am  a tenderer 
sort  of  fellow  than  you” 

“You  are  a luckier,  if  you  mean  that.” 

“ I don’t  mean  that.  I mean  I am  a man  of  more more ” 

* “ Say  gallantry,  while  you  are  about  it,”  suggested  Carton. 

“Well!  I’ll  say  gallantry.  My  meaning  is  that  I am  a man,”  said  Stryver, 
inflating  himself  at  his  friend  as  he  made  the  punch,  “who  cjtres  more  to  be 
agreeable,  who  takes  more  pains  to  be  agreeable,  who  knows  better  how  to  be 
agreeable,  in  a woman’s  society,  than  you  do.” 

“ Go  on,”  said  Sydney  Carton. 

“ No  ; but  before  I go  on,  ” said  Stryver,  shaking  his  head  in  his  bullying  way, 
“ I’ll  have  this  out  with  you.  You’ve  been  at  Dr.  Manette’s  house  as  much  as  I 
Luw,  or  more  than  I have.  Why  I have  been  ashamed  of  your  moroseuess 


8o 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


there  ! Your  manners  have  been  of  that  silent  and  sullen  and  hang-dog  kind,  that, 
upon  my  life  and  soul,  I have  been  ashamed  of  you,  Sydney!  ” 

“ It  should  be  very  beneficial  to  a man  in  your  practice  at  the  bar,  to  be  ashamed 
of  anything,”  returned  Sydney;  “you  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me.” 

“You  shall  not  get  off  in  that  way,”  rejoined  Stryver,  shouldering  the  rejoinder 
at  him ; “no,  Sydney,  it’s  my  duty  to  tell  you— and  I tell  you  to  your  face  to  do 
you  good — that  you  are  a de-vilish  ill-conditioned  fellow  in  that  sort  of  society. 
You  are  a disagreeable  fellow.” 

Sydney  drank  a bumper  of  the  punch  he  had  made,  and  laughed. 

“Look  at  me !”  said  Stryver,  squaring  himself;  “I  have  less  need  to  make 
myself  agreeable  than  you  have,  being  more  independent  in  circumstances.  Why 
do  I do  it?” 

“ I never  saw  you  do  it  yet,”  muttered  Carton. 

“I  do  it  because  it’s  politic ; I do  it  on  principle.  And  look  at  me ! I get  on.” 
“You  don’t  get  on  with  your  account  of  your  matrimonial  intentions,”  answered 
Carton,  with  a careless  air ; “I  wish  you  would  keep  to  that.  As  to  me — will  you 
never  understand  that  I am  incorrigible  ? ” 

He  asked  the  question  with  some  appearance  of  scorn. 

“You  have  no  business  to  be  incorrigible,”  was  his  friend’s  answer,  delivered  in 
no  very  soothing  tone. 

“ I have  no  business  to  be,  at  all,  that  I know  of,”  said  Sydney  Carton.  “ Who 
is  the  lady  ? ” 

“Now,  don’t  let  my  announcement  of  the  name  make  you  uncomfortable, 
Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  preparing  him  with  ostentatious  friendliness  for  the 
disclosure  he  was  about  to  make,  “ because  I know  you  don’t  mean  half  you  say ; 
and  if  you  meant  it  all,  it  would  be  of  no  importance.  I make  this  little  preface, 
because  you  once  mentioned  the  young  lady  to  me  in  slighting  terms.” 

“I  did  ?” 

“ Certainly;  and  in  these  chambers.” 

Sydney  Carton  looked  at  his  punch  and  looked  at  his  complacent  friend  ; drank 
his  punch  and  looked  at  his  complacent  friend. 

“You  made  mention  of  the  young  lady  as  a golden-haired  doll.  The  young 
lady  is  Miss  Manette.  If  you  had  been  a fellow  of  any  sensitiveness  or  delicacy 
of  feeling  in  that  kind  of  way,  Sydney,  I might  have  been  a little  resentful  of  your 
employing  auch  a designation  ; but  you  are  not.  You  want  that  sense  altogether; 
therefore  I am  no  more  annoyed  when  I think  of  the  expression,  than  I should  be 
annoyed  by  a man’s  opinion  of  a picture  of  mine,  who  had  no  eye  for  pictures  : or 
of  a piece  of  music  of  mine,  who  had  no  ear  for  music.” 

Sydney  Carton  drank  the  punch  at  a great  rate ; drank  it  by  bumpers,  looking 
at  his  friend. 

“Now  you  know  all  about  it,  Syd,”  said  Mr.  Stryver.  “I  don’t  care  about 
fortune : she  is  a charming  creature,  and  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  please 
myself : on  the  whole,  I think  I can  afford  to  please  myself.  She  will  have  in  me 
a man  already  pretty  well  off,  and  a rapidly  rising  man,  and  a man  of  some  dis- 
tinction : it  is  a piece  of  good  fortune  for  her,  but  she  is  worthy  of  good  fortune. 
Are  you  astonished  ? ” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “Why  should  I be  astonished  ? *9 
“You  approve ? ” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “ Why  should  I not  approve  ? ” 

“ Well ! ” said  his  friend  Stryver,  “ you  take  it  more  easily  than  I fancied  you 
would,  and  are  less  mercenary  on  my  behalf  than  I thought  you  would  be ; though, 
to  be  sure,  you  know  well  enough  by  this  time  that  your  ancient  chum  is  a man  of 
ft  pretty  strong  will.  Yes,  Sydney,  I have  had  enough  of  this  style  of  life,  with 


Mr.  Stryver  looks  in  at  Tells  on  /. 


81 


no  other  as  a change  from  it ; I feel  that  it  is  a pleasant  thing  for  a man  to  have  a 
home  when  he  feels  inclined  to  go  to  it  (when  he  doesn’t,  he  can  stay  away),  and  I 
feel  that  Miss  Manette  will  tell  well  in  any  station,  and  will  always  do  me  credit. 
So  I have  made  up  my  mind.  And  now,  Sydney,  old  boy,  I want  to  say  a word  to 
you  about  your  prospects.  You  are  in  a bad  way,  you  know  ; you  really  are  in  a 
bad  way.  You  don’t  know  the  value  of  money,  you  live  hard,  you’ll  knock  up  one 
of  these  days,  and  be  ill  and  poor;  you  really  ought  to  think  about  a nurse.” 

The  prosperous  patronage  with  which  he  said  it,  made  him  look  twice  as  big  as 
he  was,  and  four  times  as  offensive. 

“Now,  let  me  recommend  you,”  pursued  Stryver,  “to  look  it  in  the  face.  I 
have  looked  it  in  the  face,  in  my  different  way ; look  it  in  the  face,  you,  in  your 
different  way.  Marry.  Provide  somebody  to  take  care  of  you.  Never  mind  your 
having  no  enjoyment  of  women’s  society,  nor  understanding  of  it,  nor  tact  for  it. 
Find  out  somebody.  Find  out  some  respectable  woman  with  a little  property — 
somebody  in  the  landlady  way,  or  lodging-letting  way — and  marry  her,  against  a 
rainy  day.  That’s  the  kind  of  thing  for  you.  Now  think  of  it,  Sydney.” 

“I’ll  think  of  it,”  said  Sydney. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  FELLOW  OF  DELICACY. 

Mr.  Stryver  having  made  up  his  mind  to  that  magnanimous  bestowal  of  good 
fortune  on  the  Doctor’s  daughter,  resolved  to  make  her  happiness  known  to  her 
before  he  left  town  for  the  Long  Vacation.  After  some  mental  debating  of  the 
point,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  as  well  to  get  all  the  prelimi- 
naries done  with,  and  they  could  then  arrange  at  their  leisure  whether  he  should 
give  her  his  hand  a week  or  two  before  Michaelmas  Term,  or  in  the  little  Christmas 
vacation  between  it  and  Hilary. 

As  to  the  strength  of  his  case,  he  had  not  a doubt  about  it,  but  clearly  saw  his 
way  to  the  verdict.  Argued  with  the  jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds — the 
only  grounds  ever  worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a plain  case,  and  had  not  a 
weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself  for  the  plaintiff,  there  was  no  getting  over  his 
evidence,  the  counsel  for  the  defendant  threw  up  his  brief,  and  the  jury  did  not 
even  turn  to  consider.  After  trying  it,  Stryver,  C.  J.,  was  satisfied  that  no  plainer 
case  could  be. 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Stryver  inaugurated  the  Long  Vacation  with  a formal  pro- 
posal to  take  Miss  Manette  to  Vauxhall  Gardens  ; that  failing,  to  Ranelagh  ; that 
unaccountably  failing  too,  it  behoved  him  to  present  himself  in  Soho,  and  there 
declare  his  noble  mind. 

Towards  Soho,  therefore,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  from  the  Temple, 
while  the  bloom  of  the  Long  Vacation’s  infancy  was  still  upon  it.  Anybody  who 
had  seen  him  projecting  himself  into  Soho  while  he  was  yet  on  Saint  Dunstan's 
side  of  Temple  Bar,  bursting  in  his  full-blown  way  along  the  pavement,  to  the 
jostlement  of  all  weaker  people,  might  have  seen  how  safe  and  strong  he  was. 

His  way  taking  him  past  Tellson’s,  and  he  both  banking  at  Tellson’s  and  know- 
ing Mr.  Lorry  as  the  intimate  friend  of  the  Manettes,  it  entered  Mr.  Stryver’s 
mind  to  enter  the  bank,  and  reveal  to  Mr.  Lorry  the  brightness  of  the  Soho 
horizon.  So,  he  pushed  open  the  door  with  the  weak  rattle  in  its  throat,  stumbled 
down  the  two  steps,  got  past  the  two  ancient  cashiers,  and  shouldered  himself  into 
the  musty  back  closet  where  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  great  books  ruled  for  figures,  with 

a 


82 


A Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities . 


perpendicular  non  bars  to  his  window  as  if  that  were  ruled  for  figures  too,  and 
everything  under  the  clouds  were  a sum. 

“ Halloa  ! ” said  Mr.  Stryver.  “ How  do  you  do  ? I hope  you  are  well ! ” 

It  was  Stryver’s  grand  peculiarity  that  he  always  seemed  too  big  for  any  place, 
or  space.  He  was  so  much  too  big  for  Tellson’s,  that  old  clerks  in  distant 
comers  looked  up  with  looks  of  remonstrance,  as  though  he  squeezed  them  against 
the  wall.  The  House  itself,  magnificeritly  reading  the  paper  quite  in  the  far-off 
perspective,  lowered  displeased,  as  if  the  Stryver  head  had  been  butted  into  its 
responsible  waistcoat. 

The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a sample  tone  of  the  voice  he  would  recommend 
under  the  circumstances,  “ How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Stryver  ? How  do  you  do,  sir  ? ” 
and  shook  hands.  There  was  a peculiarity  in  his  manner  of  shaking  hands,  always 
to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tellson’s  who  shook  hands  with  a customer  when  the 
House  pervaded  the  air.  He  shook  in  a self-abnegating  way,  as  one  who  shook 
for  Tellson  and  Co. 

“Can  I do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Stryver  ? ” asked  Mr.  Lorry,  in  his  business 
character. 

“ Why,  no,  thank  you ; this  is  a private  visit  to  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry ; I have 
come  for  a private  word.” 

“ Oh  indeed  ! ” said  Mr.  Lorry,  bending  down  his  ear,  while  his  eye  strayed  to 
the  House  afar  off. 

“I  am  going,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  leaning  his  arms  confidentially  on  the  desk: 
whereupon,  although  it  was  a large  double  one,  there  appeared  to  be  not  hall 
desk  enough  for  him : “lam  going  to  make  an  offer  of  myself  in  marriage  to  your 
agreeable  little  friend,  Miss  Manette,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ Oh  dear  me ! ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  his  visitor 
lubiously. 

“Oh  dear  me,  sir?”  repeated  Stryver,  drawing  back.  “Oh  dear  you,  sir? 
What  may  your  meaning  be,  Mr.  Lorry  ? ” 

“ My  meaning,  ” answered  the  man  of  business,  “ is,  of  course,  friendly  and 
appreciative,  and  that  it  does  you  the  greatest  credit,  and — in  short,  my  meaning 

is  everything  you  could  desire.  But — really,  you  know,  Mr.  Stryver ” Mr. 

Lorry  paused,  and  shook  his  head  at  him  in  the  oddest  manner,  as  if  he  were  com- 
pelled against  his  will  to  add,  internally,  “you  know  there  really  is  so  much  too 
much  of  you  ! ” 

“ Well ! ” said  Stryver,  slapping  the  desk  with  his  contentious  hand,  opening 
his  eyes  wider,  and  taking  a long  breath,  “ if  I understand  you,  Mr.  Lorry,  I’ll  be 
hanged ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  adjusted  his  little  wig  at  both  ears  as  a means  towards  that  end,  and 
bit  the  feather  of  a pen. 

“ D — n it  all,  sir ! ” said  Stryver,  staring  at  him,  “ am  I not  eligible  ?” 

“Oh  dear  yes!  Yes.  Oh  yes,  you’re  eligible!”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “If  you 
say  eligible,  you  are  eligible.” 

“ Am  I not  prosperous  ? ” asked  Stryver. 

“ Oh  ! if  you  come  to  prosperous,  you  are  prosperous,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ And  advancing  ? ” 

“ If  you  come  to  advancing,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  delighted  to  be  able  to 
make  another  admission,  “ nobody  can  doubt  that.” 

“ Then  what  on  earth  is  your  meaning,  Mr.  Lorry  ? ” demanded  Stryver,  per« 
ceptibly  crestfallen. 

“ Well ! I Were  you  going  there  now  ? ” asked  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ Straight ! ” said  Stryver,  with  a plump  of  his  fist  on  the  desk. 

1#  Then  I think  I wouldn’t,  if  I was  you.” 


Mr . Stryver  checked. 


*3 

/*“ — — - — 

“ Why  ?”  said  Stryver.  “Now,  I’ll  put  you  in  a corner,”  forensically  shaking 
A forefinger  at  him.  “You  are  a man  of  business  and  bound  to  have  a reason. 
State  your  reason.  Why  wouldn’t  you  go  ? ” 

“ Because,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “I  wouldn’t  go  on  such  an  object  without  having 
some  cause  to  believe  that  I should  succeed.” 

“ D — n ME  ! ” cried  Stryver,  “ but  this  beats  everything.” 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  glanced  at  the  angry  Stryver. 

“ Here’s  a man  of  business — a man  of  years — a man  of  experience — in  a Bank,” 
said  Stryver  ; “ and  having  summed  up  three  leading  reasons  for  complete  success, 
he  says  there’s  no  reason  at  all ! Says  it  with  his  head  on  ! ” Mr.  Stryver  remarked 
upon  the  peculiarity  as  if  it  would  have  been  infinitely  less  remarkable  if  he  had 
said  it  with  his  head  off. 

“ When  I speak  of  success,  I speak  of  success  with  the  young  lady;  and  when 
I speak  of  causes  and  reasons  to  make  success  probable,  I speak  of  causes  and 
reasons  that  will  tell  as  such  with  the  young  lady.  The  young  lady,  my  good  sir,” 
said  Mr.  Lorry,  mildly  tapping  the  Stryver  arm,  “the  young  lady.  The  young 
lady  goes  before  all.” 

“Then  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver,  squaring  his  elbows, 
“ that  it  is  your  deliberate  opinion  that  the  young  lady  at  present  in  question  is  a 
mincing  Fool  ? ” 

“ Not  exactly  so.  I mean  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stryver,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  redden- 
ing, “ that  I will  hear  no  disrespectful  word  of  that  young  lady  from  any  lips ; 
and  that  if  I knew  any  man — which  I hope  I do  not — whose  taste  was  so  coarse, 
and  whose  temper  was  so  overbearing,  that  he  could  not  restrain  himself  from 
speaking  disrespectfully  of  that  young  lady  at  this  desk,  not  even  Tellson’s  should 
prevent  my  giving  him  a piece  of  my  mind.” 

The  necessity  of  being  angry  in  a suppressed  tone  had  put  Mr.  Stryver’s 
blood-vessels  into  a dangerous  state  when  it  was  his  turn  to  be  angry ; Mr. 
Lorry’s  veins,  methodical  as  their  courses  could  usually  be,  were  in  no  better 
state  now  it  was  his  turn. 

“That  is  what  I mean  to  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  **  Pray  let  there  be 
no  mistake  about  it.” 

Mr.  Stryver  sucked  the  end  of  a ruler  for  a little  while,  and  then  stood  hitting 
a tune  out  of  his  teeth  with  it,  which  probably  gave  him  the  toothache.  He 
broke  the  awkward  silence  by  saying : 

“ This  is  something  new  to  me,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  deliberately  advise  me  not  to 
co  up  to  Soho  and  offer  myself — myselt,  Stryver  of  the  King’s  Bench  bar  ? ” 

“ Do  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  Mr.  Stryver  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I do.” 

“ Very  good.  Then  I give  it,  and  you  have  repeated  it  correctly.” 

“ And  all  I can  say  of  it  is,”  laughed  Stryver  with  a vexed  laugh,  “ that  this — 
ha,  ha! — beats  everything  past,  present,  and  to  come.” 

“ Now  understand  me,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry.  “As  a man  of  business,  I am 
not  justified  in  saying  anything  about  this  matter,  for,  as  a man  of  business,  I 
know  nothing  of  it.  But,  as  an  old  fellow,  who  has  carried  Miss  Manette  in  his 
arms,  who  is  the  trusted  friend  of  Miss  Manette  and  of  her  father  too,  and  who 
has  a great  affection  for  them  both,  I have  spoken.  The  confidence  is  not  of  my 
seeking,  recollect.  Now,  you  think  I may  not  be  right  ? ” 

“ Not  I ! ” said  Stryver,  whistling.  “ I can’t  undertake  to  find  third  parties 
in  common  sense ; I can  only  find  it  for  myself.  I suppose  sense  in  certain 
quarters ; you  suppose  mincing  bread-and-butter  nonsense.  It’s  new  to  me  but 
you  are  right,  I dare  say.” 

“ Vhat  1 suppose,  Mr.  Stryver,  I claim  to  characterise  for  rajseJf.  Ynd 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


understand  me,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  quickly  flushing  again,  “I  will  not — not 
even  at  Tellson’s — have  it  characterised  for  me  by  any  gentleman  breathing.” 

“ There  ! I beg  your  pardon  ! ” said  Stryver. 

“Granted.  Thank  you.  Well,  Mr.  Stryver,  I was  about  to  say: — it  might 
be  painful  to  you  to  find  yourself  mistaken,  it  might  be  painful  to  Doctor  Manette 
to  have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you,  it  might  be  very  painful  to  Miss 
Manette  to  have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you.  You  know  the  terms  upon 
which  I have  the  honour  and  happiness  to  stand  with  the  family.  If  you  please, 
committing  you  in  no  way,  representing  you  in  no  way,  I will  undertake  to  correct 
my  advice  by  the  exercise  of  a little  new  observation  and  judgment  expressly 
brought  to  bear  upon  it.  If  you  should  then  be  dissatisfied  with  it,  you  can  but 
test  its  soundness  for  yourself;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  should  be  satisfied  with 
it,  and  it  should  be  what  it  now  is,  it  may  spare  all  sides  what  is  best  spared. 
What  do  you  say  ? ” 

“ How  long  would  you  keep  me  in  town  ? ” 

“ Oh!  It  is  only  a question  of  a few  hours.  I could  go  to  Soho  in  the  even- 
ing, and  come  to  your  chambers  afterwards.” 

“Then  I say  yes,”  said  Stryver : “ I won’t  go  up  there  now,  I am  not  so  hot 
upon  it  as  that  comes  to  ; I say  yes,  and  I shall  expect  you  to  look  in  to-night. 
Good  morning.” 

Then  Mr.  Stryver  turned  and  burst  out  of  the  Bank,  causing  such  a concussion 
of  air  on  his  passage  through,  that  to  stand  up  against  it  bowing  behind  the  two 
counters,  required  the  utmost  remaining  strength  of  the  two  ancient  clerks. 
Those  venerable  and  feeble  persons  were  always  seen  by  the  public  in  the  act  oi 
bowing,  and  were  popularly  believed,  when  they  had  bowed  a customer  out, 
still  to  keep  on  bowing  in  the  empty  office  until  they  bowed  another  cus- 
tomer in. 

The  barrister  was  keen  enough  to  divine  that  the  banker  would  not  have  gone 
so  far  in  his  expression  of  opinion  on  any  less  solid  ground  than  moral  certainty. 
Unprepared  as  he  was  for  the  large  pill  he  had  to  swallow,  he  got  it  down. 
“And  now,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  shaking  his  forensic  forefinger  at  the  Temple  in 
general,  when  it  was  down,  “ my  way  out  of  this,  is,  to  put  you  all  in  the  wrong.” 

It  was  a bit  of  the  art  of  an  Old  Bailey  tactician,  in  which  he  found  great 
relief.  “You  shall  not  put  me  in  the  wrong,  young  lady,”  said  Mr.  Stryver; 
“ I’ll  do  that  for  you.” 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Lorry  called  that  night  as  late  as  ten  o’clock,  Mr. 
Stryver,  among  a quantity  of  books  and  papers  littered  out  for  the  purpose, 
seemed  to  have  nothing  less  on  his  mind  than  the  subject  of  the  morning.  He 
even  showed  surprise  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lorry,  and  was  altogether  in  an  absent 
and  preoccupied  state. 

“Well!”  said  that  good-natured  tmissary,  after  a full  half-hour  of  bootless 
attempts  to  bring  him  round  to  the  question.  “ I have  been  to  Soho.” 

“ To  Soho  ? ” repeated  Mr.  Stryver,  coldly.  “ Oh,  to  be  sure  ! What  am  I 
thinking  of!  ” 

“ And  I have  no  doubt,”  said  Mr.  Lony,  “ that  I was  light  in  the  conversa- 
tion we  had.  My  opinion  is  confirmed,  and  I reiterate  my  advice.” 

“ I assure  you,”  returned  Mr.  Stryver,  in  the  friendliest  way,  “ that  I am 
sorry  for  it  on  your  account,  and  sorry  for  it  on  the  poor  father’s  account.  I 
know  this  must  always  be  a sore  subject  with  the  family;  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ I dare  say  not,”  rejoined  Stryver,  nodding  his  head  in  a smoothing  and  final 
way ; tl  no  matter,  no  matter.” 


IVasted  energies . 


85 


“ But  it  does  matter,”  Mr.  Lorry  urged. 

“No  it  doesn’t;  I assume  you  it  doesn’t.  Having  supposed  that  there  was 
sense  where  there  is  no  sense,  and  a laudable  ambition  where  there  is  not  a 
laudable  ambition,  I am  well  out  of  my  mistake,  and  no  harm  is  done.  Young 
women  have  committed  similar  follies  often  before,  and  have  repented  them  in 
poverty  and  obscurity  often  before.  In  an  unselfish  aspect,  I am  sorry  that  the 
thing  is  dropped,  because  it  would  have  been  a bad  thing  for  me  in  a worldly 
point  of  view  ; in  a selfish  aspect,  I am  glad  that  the  thing  has  dropped,  because 
it  would  have  been  a bad  thing  for  me  in  a worldly  point  of  view — it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  I could  have  gained  nothing  by  it.  There  is  no  harm  at  all  done. 
I have  not  proposed  to  the  young  lady,  and,  between  ourselves,  I am  by  no  means 
certain,  on  reflection,  that  I ever  should  have  committed  myself  to  that  extent. 
Air.  Lorry,  you  cannot  control  the  mincing  vanities  and  giddinesses  of  empty- 
headed  girls  ; you  must  not  expect  to  do  it,  or  you  will  always  be  disappointed. 
Now,  pray  say  no  more  about  it.  I tell  you,  I regret  it  on  account  of  others,  but 
J am  satisfied  on  my  own  account.  And  I am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  allowing  me  to  sound  you,  and  for  giving  me  your  advice  ; you  know  the  young 
lady  better  than  I do  ; you  were  right,  it  never  would  have  done.” 

Air.  Lorry  was  so  taken  aback,  that  he  looked  quite  stupidly  at  Air.  Stryver 
shouldering  him  towards  the  door,  with  an  appearance  of  showering  generosity, 
forbearance,  and  good-will,  on  his  erring  head.  “Make  the  best  of  it,  my  dear 
sir,”  said  Stryver ; “say  no  more  about  it ; thank  you  again  for  allowing  me  to 
sound  you  ; good  night  ! ” 

Mr.  "Lorry  was  out  in  the  night,  before  he  knew  where  he  was.  Mr.  Stryver 
was  lying  back  on  his  sofa,  winking  at  his  ceiling. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  FELLOW  OF  NO  DELICACY. 

If  Sydney  Carton  ever  shone  anywhere,  he  certainly  never  shone  in  the  house  of 
Doctor  Alanette.  He  had  been  there  often,  during  a whole  year,  and  had  always 
been  the  same  moody  and  morose  lounger  there.  When  he  cared  to  talk,  he 
talked  well ; but,  the  cloud  of  caring  for  nothing,  which  overshadowed  him  with 
such  a fatal  darkness,  was  very  rarely  pierced  by  the  light  within  him. 

And  yet  he  did  care  something  for  the  streets  that  environed  that  house,  and 
for  the  senseless  stones  that  made  their  pavements.  Alany  a night  he  vaguely 
and  unhappily  wandered  there,  when  wine  had  brought  no  transitory  gladness  to 
him  ; many  a dreary  daybreak  revealed  his  solitary  figure  lingering  there,  and  still 
lingering  there  when  the  first  beams  of  the  sun  brought  into  strong  relief,  removed 
beauties  of  architecture  in  spires  of  churches  and  lofty  buildings,  as  perhaps  the 
quiet  time  brought  some  sense  of  better  things,  else  forgotten  and  unattainable, 
into  his  mind.  Of  late,  the  neglected  bed  in  the  Temple  Court  had  known  him 
more  scantily  than  ever  ; and  often  when  he  had  thrown  himself  upon  it  no  longer 
than  a few  minutes,  he  had  got  up  again,  and  haunted  that  neighbourhood. 

On  a day  in  August,  when  Mr.  Stryver  (after  notifying  to  his  jackall  that  “ he 
had  thought  better  of  that  marrying  matter”)  had  carried  his  delicacy  into  Devon  ■ 
shire,  and  when  the  sight  and  scent  of  flowers  in  the  City  streets  had  some  waifs 
of  goodness  in  them  for  the  worst,  of  health  for  the  sickliest,  and  of  youth  for 
the  oldest,  Sydnej’s  feet  still  trod  those  stones.  From  being  iiresolute  and 


86 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


purposeless,  his  feet  became  animated  by  an  intention,  and,  in  the  working  out  ol 
that  intention,  they  took  him  to  the  Doctor’s  door. 

He  was  shown  up-stairs,  and  found  Lucie  at  her  work,  alone.  She  had  never 
been  quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  and  received  him  with  some  little  embarrassment 
as  he  seated  himself  near  her  table.  But,  looking  up  at  his  face  in  the  inter- 
change of  the  first  few  common-places,  she  observed  a change  in  it, 

“ I fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton  ! ” 

“ No.  But  the  life  I lead,  Miss  Manette,  is  not  conducive  to  health.  What  is 
to  be  expected  of,  or  by,  such  profligates  ?” 

“ Is  it  not — forgive  me  ; I have  begun  the  question  on  my  lips — a pity  to  live  no 
better  life  ? ” 

“ God  knows  it  is  a shame ! ” 

“ Then  why  not  change  it  ?” 

Looking  gently  at  him  again,  she  was  surprised  and  saddened  to  see  that  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  There  were  tears  in  his  voice  too,  as  he  answered  : 

“It  is  too  late  for  that.  I shall  never  be  better  than  I am.  I shall  sink  lower, 
and  be  worse.” 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  her  table,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  The 
table  trembled  in  the  silence  that  followed. 

She  had  never  seen  him  softened,  and  was  much  distressed.  He  knew  her  to 
be  so,  without  looking  at  her,  and  said  : 

“ Pray  forgive  me,  Miss  Manette.  I break  down  before  the  knowledge  of 
what  I want  to  say  to  you.  Will  you  hear  me  ?” 

“If  it  will  do  you  any  good,  Mr.  Carton,  if  it  would  make  you  happier,  it 
would  make  me  very  glad ! ” 

“ God  bless  you  for  your  sweet  compassion  ! ” 

He  unshaded  his  face  after  a little  while,  and  spoke  steadily. 

“Don’t  be  afraid  to  hear  me.  Don’t  shrink  from  anything  I say.  I am  like 
one  who  died  young.  All  my  life  might  have  been.” 

“No,  Mr.  Carton.  I am  sure  that  the  best  part  of  it  might  still  be;  I am 
sure  that  you  might  be  much,  much  worthier  of  yourself.” 

“ Say  of  you,  Miss  Manette,  and  although  I know  better— although  in  the 
mystery  of  my  own  wretched  heart  I know  better — I shall  never  forget  it ! ” 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.  He  came  to  her  relief  with  a fixed  despair  of 
himself  which  made  the  interview  unlike  any  other  that  could  have  been  holden. 

“ If  it  had  been  possible,  Miss  Manette,  that  you  could  have  returned  the  love 
of  the  man  you  see  before  you — self-flung  away,  wasted,  drunken,  poor  creature 
of  misuse  as  you  know  him  to  be — he  would  have  been  conscious  this  day  and 
hour,  in  spite  of  his  happiness,  that  he  would  bring  you  to  misery,  bring  you  to 
sorrow  and  repentance,  blight  you,  disgrace  you,  pulLyou  down  with  him.  I 
know  very  well  that  you  can  have  no  tenderness  for  me  ; I ask  for  none  ; 1 am 
even  thankful  that  it  cannot  be.” 

“ Without  it,  can  I not  save  you,  Mr.  Carton  ? Can  I not  recall  you — forgive 
me  again ! — to  a better  course  ? Can  I in  no  way  repay  your  confidence  ? I 
know  this  is  a confidence,”  she  modestly  said,  after  a little  hesitation,  and  in 
earnest  tears,  “I  know  you  would  say  this  to  no  one  else.  Can  I turn  it  to  no 
good  account  for  yourself,  Mr.  Carton  ?” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“To  none.  No,  Miss  Manette,  to  none.  If  you  will  hear  me  through  a very 
little  more,  all  you  can  ever  do  for  me  is  done.  I wish  you  to  know  that  you 
have  been  the  last  dream  of  my  soul.  In  my  degradation  I have  not  been  so 
degraded  but  that  the  sight  of  you  with  your  father,  and  of  this  home  made  such 
a home  by  you,  has  stirred  old  shadows  that  I thought  had  died  out  of  me.  Since 


Sydney  Carton  s confidence  to  Lucie . 


8? 


I knew  you,  I have  been  troubled  by  a remorse  that  I thought  would  never  re* 
proach  me  again,  and  have  heard  whispers  from  nd  voices  impelling  me  upward, 
that  I thought  were  silent  for  ever.  I have  had  unformed  ideas  of  striving  afresh, 
beginning  anew,  shaking  off  sloth  and  sensuality,  and  fighting  out  the  abandoned 
fight.  A dream,  all  a dream,  that  ends  in  nothing,  and  lea/es  the  sleeper  where 
he  lay  down,  but  I wish  you  to  know  that  you  inspired  it.” 

“ Will  nothing  of  it  remain  ? O Mr.  Carton,  think  again  ! Try  again  ! ” 

“No,  Miss  Manette  ; all  through  it,  I have  known  myself  to  be  quite  undeserv- 
ing. And  yet  I have  had  the  weakness,  and  have  still  the  weakness,  to  wish  you 
to  know  with  what  a sudden  mastery  you  kindled  me,  heap  of  ashes  that  I am, 
into  fire — a fire,  however,  inseparable  in  its  nature  from  myself,  quickening  nothing, 
lighting  nothing,  doing  no  service,  idly  burning  away.” 

“ Since  it  is  my  misfortune,  Mr.  Carton,  to  have  made  you  more  unhappy  than 
you  were  before  you  knew  me ” 

“ Don’t  say  that,  Miss  Manette,  for  you  would  have  reclaimed  me,  if  anything 
could.  You  will  not  be  the  cause  of  my  becoming  worse.” 

“ Since  the  state  of  your  mind  that  you  describe,  is,  at  all  events,  attributable 
to  some  influence  of  mine — this  is  what  I mean,  if  I can  make  it  plain — can  I use 
no  influence  to  serve  you  ? Have  I no  power  for  good,  with  you,  at  all  ? ” 

“ The  utmost  good  that  I am  capable  of  now,  Miss  Manette,  I have  come  here 
to  realise.  Let  me  carry  through  the  rest  of  my  misdirected  life,  the  remembrance 
that  I opened  my  heart  to  you,  last  of  all  the  world  ; and  that  there  was  something 
left  in  me  at  this  time  which  you  could  deplore  and  pity.” 

“ Which  1 entreated  you  to  believe,  again  and  again,  most  fervently,  with  all 
my  heart,  was  capable  of  better  things,  Mr.  Carton  ! ” 

“ Entreat  me  to  believe  it  no  more,  Miss  Manette.  I have  proved  myself,  and 
I know  better.  I distress  you  ; I draw  fast  to  an  end.  Will  you  let  me  believe, 
when  I recall  this  day,  that  the  last  confidence  of  my  life  was  reposed  in  your  pure 
and  innocent  breast,  and  that  it  lies  there  alone,  and  will  be  shared  by  no  one  ? ” 

“ If  that  will  be  a consolation  to  you,  yes.” 

“Not  even  by  the  dearest  one  ever  to  be  known  to  you  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Carton,”  she  answered,  after  an  agitated  pause,  “ the  secret  is  yours,  not 
mine  ; and  I promise  to  respect  it.” 

“ Thank  you.  And  again,  God  bless  you.” 

He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

“ Be  under  no  apprehension,  Miss  Manette,  of  my  ever  resuming  this  conversa- 
tion by  so  much  as  a passing  word.  I will  never  refer  lo  it  again.  If  I were 
dead,  that  could  not  be  surer  than  it  is  henceforth.  In  the  hour  of  my  death,  I 
shall  hold  sacred  the  one  good  remembrance — and  shall  thank  and  bless  you  for 
it — that  my  last  avowal  of  myself  was  made  to  you,  and  that  my  name,  and  faults, 
and  miseries  were  gently  carried  in  your  heart.  May  it  otherwise  be  light  and 
happy ! ” 

He  was  so  unlike  what  he  had  ever  shown  himself  to  be,  and  it  was  so  sad  to 
think  how  much  he  had  thiown  away,  and  how  much  he  everyday  kept  down  and 
perverted,  that  Lucie  Manette  wept  mournfully  for  him  as  he  stood  looking  back 
at  her. 

“Be comforted  ! ” he  said,  “I  am  not  worth  such  feeling,  Miss  Manette.  An 
hour  or  two  hence,  and  the  low  companions  and  low  habits  that  I scorn  but  yield 
to,  will  render  me  less  worth  such  tears  as  those,  than  any  wretch  who  creeps  along 
the  streets.  Be  comforted ! But,  within  myself,  I shall  always  be,  towards  you, 
what  I am  now,  though  outwardly  I shall  be  what  you  have  heretofore  seen  me. 
The  last  supplication  but  one  I make  to  you,  is,  that  you  will  believe  thi*.  cf  me.” 
“ I will,  Mr.  Carton.” 


88 


A Tale  of  T ’zoo  Cities . 


“ My  last  supplication  of  all,  is  this  ; and  with  it,  I will  relieve  you  of  a visitor 
with  whom  I well  know  you  have  nothing  in  unison,  and  between  whom  and  you 
there  is  an  impassable  space.  It  is  useless  to  say  it,  I know,  but  it  rises  out  of 
my  soul.  For  you,  and  for  any  dear  to  you,  I would  do  anything.  If  my  career 
were  of  that  better  kind  that  there  was  any  opportunity  or  capacity  of  sacrifice  in 
it,  I would  embrace  any  sacrifice  for  you  and  for  those  dear  to  you.  Try  to  hold 
me  in  your  mind,  at  some  quiet  times,  as  ardent  and  sincere  in  this  one  thing. 
The  time  will  come,  the  time  will  not  be  long  in  coming,  when  new  ties  will  be 
formed  about  you — ties  that  will  bind  you  yet  more  tenderly  and  strongly  to  the 
home  you  so  adorn — the  dearest  ties  that  will  ever  grace  and  gladden  you.  O 
Miss  Manette,  when  the  little  picture  of  a happy  father’s  face  looks  up  in  yours, 
when  you  see  your  own  bright  beauty  springing  up  anew  at  your  feet,  think  now 
and  then  that  there  is  a man  who  would  give  his  life,  to  keep  a life  you  love 
beside  you  ! ” 

He  said,  “ Farewell ! ” said  a last  “ God  bless  you  ! ” and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  HONEST  TRADESJaAli. 

To  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cruncher,  sitting  on  his  stool  in  Fleet  Street  with 
his  grisly  urchin  beside  him,  a vast  number  and  variety  of  objects  in  movement 
were  every  day  presented.  Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in  Fleet  Street  during 
the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not  be  dazed  and  deafened  by  two  immense  pro- 
cessions,  one  ever  tending  westward  wich  the  sun,  the  other  ever  tending  eastward 
from  the  sun,  both  ever  tending  to  the  plains  beyond  the  range  of  red  and  purple 
where  the  sun  goes  down  ! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher  sat  watching  the  two  streams,  like 
the  heathen  rustic  who  has  for  several  centuries  been  on  duty  watching  one  stream 
— saving  that  Jerry  had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  running  dry.  Nor  would  it  have 
been  an  expectation  of  a hopeful  kind,  since  a small  part  of  his  income  was  derived 
from  the  pilotage  of  timid  women  (mostly  of  a full  habit  and  past  the  middle  term 
of  life)  from  Tellson’s  side  of  the  tides  to  the  opposite  shore.  Brief  as  such  com- 
panionship was  in  every  separate  in  tance,  Mr.  Cruncher  never  failed  to  become 
so  interested  in  the  lady  as  to  express  a strong  desire  to  have  the  honour  of  drink- 
ing her  very  good  health.  And  it  was  from  the  gifts  bestowed  upon  him  towards 
the  execution  of  this  benevolent  purpose,  that  he  recruited  his  finances,  as  just 
now  observed.  > 

Time  was,  when  a poet  sat  upon  a stool  in  a public  place,  and  mused  in  the 
sight  of  men.  Mr.  Cruncher,  sitting  on  a stool  in  a public  place,  but  not  being  a 
poet,  mused  as  little  as  possible,  and  looked  about  him. 

It  fell  out  that  he  was  thus  engaged  in  a season  when  crowds  were  few,  and 
belated  women  few,  and  when  his  affairs  in  general  were  so  unprosperous  as  to 
awaken  a strong  suspicion  in  his  breast  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  must  have  been  “ flop- 
ping ” in  some  pointed  manner,  when  an  unusual  concourse  pouring  down  Fleet 
Street  westward,  attracted  his  attention.  Looking  that  way,  Mr.  Cruncher  made 
out  that  some  kind  of  funeral  was  coming  along,  and  that  there  was  popular  objec- 
tion to  this  funeral,  which  engendered  uproar. 

“ Young  Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  turning  to  his  offspring,  “ it’s  a buryinV* 

“ Hooroar,  father  ! ” cried  Young  Jerry. 

The  young  gentleman  uttered  this  exultant  sound  with  mysterious  significance 


Cruncher  and  Son . 


g9 


The  elder  gentleman  took  the  cry  so  ill,  that  he  watched  his  opportunity,  and 
smote  the  voung  gentleman  on  the  ear. 

••What  d’ye  mean?  What  are  you  hooroaring  2t  ? What  do  you  want  to 
conwey  to  your  own  father,  you  young  Rip  ? This  boy  is  a getting  too  many  for 
me  /”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  surveying  him.  “ Him  and  his  hooroars  ! Don’t  let 
me  hear  no  more  of  you,  or  you  shall  feel  some  more  of  me.  D’ye  hear  ? ” 

“ I wam’t  doing  no  harm,”  Young  Jerry  protested,  rubbing  his  cheek. 

“Drop  it  then,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher;  “ I won’t  have  none  of  your  no  harms. 
Get  a top  of  that  there  seat,  and  look  at  the  crowd.” 

His  son  obeyed,  and  the  crowd  approached  ; they  were  bawling  and  hissing 
round  a dingy  hearse  and  dingy  mourning  coach,  in  which  mourning  coach  there 
was  only  one  mourner,  dressed  in  the  dingy  trappings  that  were  considered  essen- 
tial to  the  dignity  of  the  position.  The  position  appeared  by  no  means  to  please 
him,  however,  with  an  increasing  rabble  surrounding  the  coach,  deriding  him, 
making  grimaces  at  him,  and  incessantly  groaning  and  calling  out:  “Yah! 
Spies  ! Tst ! Yaha  ! Spies  ! ” with  many  compliments  too  numerous  and  forcible 
to  repeat. 

Funerals  had  at  all  times  a remarkable  attraction  for  Mr.  Cruncher ; he  always 
pricked  up  his  senses,  and  became  excited,  when  a funeral  passed  Tellson’s. 
Naturally,  therefore,  a funeral  with  this  uncommon  attendance  excited  him  greatly, 
and  he  asked  of  the  first  man  who  ran  against  him  ' 

“ What  is  it,  brother  ? What’s  it  about  ? ” 

“/  don’t  know,”  said  the  man.  “ Spies  ! Yaha  ! Tst ! Spies  ! ” 

He  asked  another  man.  “ Who  is  it  ?” 

“/  don’t  know,”  returned  the  man,  clapping  his  hands  to  his  mouth  neverthe- 
less, and  vociferating  in  a surprising  heat  and  with  the  greatest  ardour,  “ Spies! 
Yaha  ! Tst,  tst ! Spi-ies  ! ” 

At  length,  a person  better  informed  on  the  merits  of  the  case,  tumbled  against 
him,  and  from  this  person  he  learned  that  the  funeral  was  the  funeral  of  one 
Roger  Cly. 

“Was  He  a spy  ? ” asked  Mr.  Cruncher. 

“Old  Bailey  spy,”  returned  his  informant.  “Yaha!  Tst!  Yah!  Old  Bailey 
Spi-i-ies ! ” 

“Why,  to  be  sure!”  exclaimed  Jerry,  recalling  the  Trial  at  which  he  had 
assisted.  “I’ve  seen  him.  Dead,  is  he  ? ” 

“Dead  as  mutton,”  returned  the  other,  “and  can’t  be  too  dead.  Have ’em 
out,  there  ! Spies  ! Pull  ’em  out,  there  ! Spies  ! ” 

The  idea  was  so  acceptable  in  the  prevalent  absence  of  any  idea,  that  the  crowd 
caught  it  up  with  eagerness,  and  loudly  repeating  the  suggestion  to  have  ’em  out, 
and  to  pull  ’em  out,  mobbed  the  two  vehicles  so  closely  that  they  came  to  a'  stop. 
On  the  crowd’s  opening  the  coach  doors,  the  one  mourner  scuffled  out  of  himself 
and  was  in  their  hands  for  a moment ; but  he  was  so  alert,  and  made  such  good 
use  of  his  time,  that  in  another  moment  he  was  scouring  away  up  a by-street,  after 
shedding  his  cloak,  hat,  long  hatband,  white  pocket-handkerchief,  and  other  sym- 
bolical tears. 

These,  the  people  tore  to  pieces  and  scattered  far  and  wide  with  great  enjoyment, 
while  the  tradesmen  hurriedly  shut  up  their  shops  ; for  a crowd  in  those  times 
stopped  at  nothing,  and  was  a monster  much  dreaded.  They  had  already  got  the 
length  of  opening  the  hearse  to  take  the  coffin  out,  when  some  brighter  genius 
proposed  instead,  its  being  escorted  to  its  destination  amidst  general  rejoicing. 
Practical  suggestions  being  much  needed,  this  suggestion,  too,  was  received  with 
acclamation,  and  the  coach  was  immediately  filled  with  eight  inside  and  a dozen 
out,  while  as  many  people  got  on  the  roof  of  the  hearse  as  could  by  any  exercis# 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


9f 

of  ingenuity  stick  upon  it.  Among  the  first  of  these  volunteers  was  Jem 
Cruncher  himself,  who  modestly  concealed  his  spiky  head  from  the  observation 
of  Tellson’s,  in  the  further  corner  of  the  mourning  coach. 

The  officiating  undertakers  made  some  protest  against  these  changes  in  the 
ceremonies ; but,  the  river  being  alarmingly  near,  and  several  voices  remarking 
on  the  efficacy  of  cold  immersion  in  bringing  refractory  members  of  the  pro- 
fession to  reason,  the  protest  was  faint  and  brief.  The  remodelled  procession 
started.,  with  a chimney-sweep  driving  the  hearse— advised  by  the  regular  driver, 
who  was  perched  beside  him,  under  close  inspection,  for  the  purpose— and  with 
a pieman,  also  attended  by  his  cabinet  minister,  driving  the  mourning  coach. 
A bear-leader,  a popular  street  character  of  the  time,  was  impressed  as  an  addi- 
tional ornament,  before  the  cavalcade  had  gone  far  down  the  Strand ; and  his 
bear,  who  was  black  and  very  mangy,  gave  quite  an  Undertaking  air  to  that  part 
of  the  procession  in  which  he  walked. 

Thus,  with  beer-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  song-roaring,  and  infinite  caricaturing 
of  woe,  the  disorderly  procession  went  its  way,  recruiting  at  every  step,  and  all 
the  shops  shutting  up  before  it.  Its  destination  was  the  old  church  of  Saint 
Pancras,  far  off  in  the  fields.  It  got  there  in  course  of  time  ; insisted  on  pouring 
into  the  burial-ground ; finally,  accomplished  the  interment  of  the  deceased  Roger 
Cly  in  its  own  way,  and  highly  to  its  own  satisfaction. 

The  dead  man  disposed  of,  and  the  crowd  being  under  the  necessity  of  pro- 
viding some  other  entertainment  for  itself,  another  brighter  genius  (or  perhaps 
the  same)  conceived  the  humour  of  impeaching  casual  passers-by,  as  Old  Bailey 
spies,  and  wreaking  vengeance  on  them.  Chase  was  given  to  some  scores  of 
inoffensive  persons  who  had  never  been  near  the  old  Bailey  in  their  lives,  in  the 
realisation  of  this  fancy,  and  they  were  roughly  hustled  and  maltreated.  The 
transition  to  the  sport  of  window-breaking,  and  thence  to  the  plundering  of 
public-houses,  was  easy  and  natural.  At  last,  after  several  hours,  when  sundry 
summer-houses  had  been  pulled  down,  and  some  area-railings  had  been  torn  up, 
to  arm  the  more  belligerent  spirits,  a rumour  got  about  that  the  Guards  were 
coming.  Before  this  rumour,  the  crowd  gradually  melted  away,  and  perhaps 
tht'  Guards  came,  and  perhaps  they  never  came,  and  this  was  the  usual  progress 
of  a mob. 

Mr.  Cruncher  did  not  assist  at  the  closing  sports,  but  had  remained  behind  in 
the  churchyard,  to  confer  and  condole  with  the  undertakers.  The  place  had  a 
soothing  influence  on  him.  He  procured  a pipe  from  a neighbouring  public-house, 
and  smoked  it,  looking  in  at  the  railings  and  maturely  considering  the  spot. 

“ Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  apostrophising  himself  in  his  usual  way,  “ you  see 
that  there  Cly  that  day,  and  you  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  he  was  a young  ’un 
and  a straight  made  ’un.” 

Having  smoked  his  pipe  out,  and  ruminated  a little  longer,  he  turned  himself 
about,  that  he  might  appear,  before  the  hour  of  closing,  on  his  station  at  Tellson’s. 
Whether  his  meditations  on  mortality  had  touched  his  lirer,  or  whether  his  general 
health  had  been  previously  at  all  amiss,  or  whether  he  desired  to  show  a little 
attention  to  an  eminent  man,  is  not  so  much  to  the  purpose,  as  that  he  made 
a short  call  upon  his  medical  adviser — a distinguished  surgeon — on  his  way  back. 

Young  Jerry  relieved  his  father  with  dutiful  interest,  and  reported  No  job  in 
his  absence.  The  bank  closed,  the  ancient  clerks  came  out,  the  usual  watch  wa# 
set,  and  Mr.  Cruncher  and  his  son  went  home  to  tea. 

“ Now,  I tell  you  where  it  is  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher  to  his  wife,  on  entering.  “ If, 
as  a honest  tradesman,  my  wenturs  goes  wrong  to-night,  I shall  make  sure  that 
you’ve  been  praying  again  me,  and  I shall  work  you  for  it  just  the  same  as  if  I 
seen  you  d.)  it.” 


Mr . Cruncher  bars  flopping. 


9l 


The  dejected  Mrs.  Cruncher  shook  her  head. 

“Why,  you’re  at  it  afore  my  face  !”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  signs  of  angry 
apprehension. 

“ I am  saying  nothing.” 

“ Well,  then ; don’t  meditate  nothing.  You  might  as  well  flop  as  meditate. 
You  may  as  well  go  again  me  one  way  as  another.  Drop  it  altogether.” 

“ Yes,  Jerry.” 

“ Yes,  Terry,”  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher  sitting  down  to  tea.  “ Ah  ! It  is  yen, 
Jerry.  That’s  about  it.  You  may  say  yes,  Jerry.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  no  particular  meaning  in  these  sulky  corroborations,  but 
made  use  of  them,  as  people  not  unfrequently  do,  to  express  general  ironical  dis- 
satisfaction. 

“ You  and  your  yes,  Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  taking  a bite  out  of  his  bread- 
and-butter,  and  seeming  to  help  it  down  with  a large  invisible  oyster  out  of  his 
saucer.  “Ah!  I think  so.  I believe  you.” 

“ You  are  going  out  to-night  ? ” asked  his  decent  wife,  when  he  took  another  bite. 

“ Yes,  I am.” 

“ May  I go  with  you,  father  ?”  asked  his  son,  briskly. 

“ No,  you  mayn’t.  I’m  a going — as  your  mother  knows — a fishing.  That’s 
where  I’m  going  to.  Going  a fishing.” 

“ Your  fishing-rod  gets  rayther  rusty  ; don’t  it,  father  ? ” 

“ Never  you  mind.” 

“ Shall  you  bring  any  fish  home,  father?” 

“ If  I don’t,  you’ll  have  short  commons,  to-morrow,”  returned  that  gentleman, 
shaking  his  head;  “that’s  questions  enough  for  you;  I ain’t  a going  out,  till 
you’ve  been  long  a-bed.” 

He  devoted  himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening  to  keeping  a most 
vigilant  watch  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  and  sullenly  holding  her  in  conversation  that 
she  might  be  prevented  from  meditating  any  petitions  to  his  disadvantage.  With 
this  view,  he  urged  his  son  to  hold  her  in  conversation  also,  and  led  the  unfor- 
tunate woman  a hard  life  by  dwelling  on  any  causes  of  complaint  he  Gould  bring 
against  her,  rather  than  he  would  leave  her  for  a moment  to  her  own  reflections. 
The  devoutest  person  could  have  rendered  no  greater  homage  to  the  efficacy  of  an 
honest  prayer  than  he  did  in  this  distrust  of  his  wife.  It  was  as  if  a professed 
unbeliever  in  ghosts  should  be  frightened  by  a ghost  story. 

“And  mind  you!”  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  “No  games  to-morrow'!  If  I,  as  a 
honest  tradesman,  succeed  in  providing  a jinte  of  meat  or  two,  none  of  your  not 
touching  of  it,  and  sticking  to  bread.  If  I,  as  a honest  tradesman,  am  able  to 
provide  a little  beer,  none  of  your  declaring  on  water.  When  you  go  to  Rome, 
do  as  Rome  does.  Rome  will  be  a ugly  customer  to  you,  if  you  don’t,  /’m  your 
Rome,  you  know,” 

Then  he  began  grumbling  again : 

“ With  your  flying  into  the  face  of  your  own  wittles  and  drink  ! I don’t  know 
how  scarce  you  mayn’t  make  the  wittles  and  drink  here,  by  your  flopping  tricks 
and  your  unfeeling  conduct.  Look  at  your  boy  : he  is  your’n,  ain’t  he  ? He’s  as 
thin  as  a lath.  Dc  you  call  yourself  a mother,  and  not  know  that  a mother’s  first 
duty  is  to  blow  her  boy  out  ? ” 

This  touched  young  Jerry  on  a tender  place ; who  adjured  his  mother  to  per- 
form her  first  duty,  and,  whatever  else  she  did  or  neglected,  above  all  things  to 
lay  especial  stress  on  the  discharge  of  that  maternal  function  so  affectingly  and 
delicately  indicated  by  his  other  parent. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  away  with  the  Cruncher  family,  until  Young  Jerry  was 
ordered  to  bed,  and  his  mother,  laid  under  similar  injunctions,  obeyed  them.  M/ 


9* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

Cruncher  beguiled  the  earlier  watches  of  the  night  with  solitary  pipes,  and  did 
not  stait  upon  his  excursion  until  nearly  one  o’clock.  Towards  that  small  and 
ghostly  hour,  he  rose  up  from  his  chair,  took  a key  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  a 
locked  cupboard,  and  brought  forth  a sack,  a crowbar  of  convenient  size,  a rope 
and  chain,  and  other  fishing  tackle  of  that  nature.  Disposing  these  articles  about 
him  in  skilful  manner,  he  bestowed  a parting  defiance  on  Mrs  Cruncher,  extin- 
guished the  light,  and  went  out. 

Young  Jerry,  who  had  only  made  a feint  of  undressing  when  he  went  to  bed, 
was  not  long  after  his  father.  Under  cover  of  the  darkness  he  followed  out  of  the 
room,  followed  down  the  stairs,  followed  down  the  court,  followed  out  into  the 
streets.  He  was  in  no  uneasiness  concerning  his  getting  into  the  house  again,  for 
it  was  full  of  lodgers,  and  the  door  stood  ajar  all  night. 

Impelled  by  a laudable  ambition  to  study  the  art  and  mystery  of  his  father’s 
honest  calling,  Young  Jerry,  keeping  as  close  to  house  fronts,  walls,  and  door- 
ways, as  his  eyes  were  close  to  one  another,  held  his  honoured  parent  in  view. 
The  honoured  parent  steering  Northward,  had  not  gone  far,  when  he  was  joined 
by  another  disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  and  the  two  trudged  on  together. 

Within  half  an  hour  from  the  first  starting,  they  were  beyond  the  winking 
lamps,  and  the  more  than  winking  watchmen,  and  were  out  upon  a lonely  road. 
Another  fisherman  was  picked  up  here — and  that  so  silently,  that  if  Young  Jerry 
had  been  superstitious,  he  might  have  supposed  the  second  follower  of  the  gentle 
craft  to  have,  all  of  a sudden,  split  himself  into  two. 

The  three  went  on,  and  Young  Jerry  went  on,  until  the  three  stopped  under  a 
bank  overhanging  the  road.  Upon  the  top  of  the  bank  was  a low  brick  wall, 
surmounted  by  an  iron  railing.  In  the  shadow  of  bank  and  wall  the  three  turned 
out  of  the  road,  and  up  a blind  lane,  of  which  the  wall — there,  risen  to  some 
eight  or  ten  feet  high — formed  one  side.  Crouching  down  in  a corner,  peeping 
up  the  lane,  the  next  object  that  Young  Jerry  saw,  was  the  form  of  his  honoured 
parent,  pretty  well  defined  against  a watery  and  clouded  moon,  nimbly  scaling 
an  iron  gate.  He  was  soon  over,  and  then  the  second  fisherman  got  over,  and 
then  the  third.  They  all  dropped  softly  on  the  ground  within  the  gate,  and  lay 
there  a little — listening  perhaps.  Then,  they  moved  away  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

It  was  now  Young  Jerry’s  turn  to  approach  the  gate  : which  he  did,  holding 
his  breath.  Crouching  down  again  in  a corner  there,  and  looking  in,  he  made 
out  the  three  fishermen  creeping  through  some  rank  grass  ! and  all  the  grave- 
stones in  the  churchyard — it  was  a large  churchyard  that  they  were  in — looking 
on  like  ghosts  in  white,  while  the  church  tower  itself  looked  on  like  the  ghost 
of  a monstrous  giant.  They  did  not  creep  far,  before  they  stopped  and  stood 
upright.  And  then  they  began  to  fish. 

They  fished  with  a spade,  at  first.  Presently  the  honoured  parent  appeared  to 
be  adjusting  some  instrument  like  a great  corkscrew.  Whatever  tools  they  worked 
with,  they  worked  hard,  until  the  awful  striking  of  the  church  clock  so  terrified 
Young  Jerry,  that  he  made  off,  with  his  hair  as  stiff  as  his  father’s. 

But,  his  long-cherished  desire  to  know  more  about  vhese  matters,  not  only 
stopped  him  in  his  running  away,  but  lured  him  back  again.  They  were  stil\ 
fishing  perseveringly,  when  he  peeped  in  at  the  gate  for  the  second  time ; but, 
now  they  seemed  to  have  got  a bite.  There  was  a ’Screwing  and  complaining 
sound  down  below,  and  their  bent  figures  were  strained,  as  if  by  a weight.  By 
slow  degrees  the  weight  broke  away  the  earth  upon  it,  and  came  to  the  surface. 
Young  Jerry  very  well  knew  what  it  would  be ; but,  when  he  saw  it,  and  saw  his 
honoured  parent  about  to  wrench  it  open,  he  was  so  frightened,  being  new  to 
thesignt,  that  he  made  off  again,  and  never  stopped  until  he  had  run  a mile  or  more. 

He  would  not  have  stopped  then,  for  anything  less  necessary  than  breath,  it 


Mr.  Cruncher's  honest  trade. 


93 


being  a spectral  sort  of  race  that  he  ran,  and  one  highly  desirable  to  get  to  the 
end  of.  He  had  a strong  idea  that  the  coffin  he  had  seen  was  running  after  him  ; 
and,  pictured  as  hopping  on  behind  him,  bolt  upright,  upon  its  narrow  end, 
always  on  the  point  of  overtaking  him  and  hopping  on  at  his  side — perhaps 
taking  his  arm — it  was  a pursuer  to  shun.  It  was  an  inconsistent  and  ubiquitous 
fiend  too,  for,  while  it  was  making  the  whole  night  behind  him  dreadful,  he 
darted  out  into  the  roadway  to  avoid  dark  alleys,  fearful  of  its  coming  hopping 
out  of  them  like  a dropsical  boy’s-Kite  without  tail  and  wings.  It  hid  in  door- 
ways too,  rubbing  its  horrible  shoulders  against  doors,  and  drawing  them  up  to 
its  ears,  as  if  it  were  laughing.  It  got  into  shadows  on  the  road,  and  lay 
cunningly  on  its  back  to  trip  him  up.  All  this  time  it  was  incessantly  hopping 
on  behind  and  gaining  on  him,  so  that  when  the  boy  got  to  his  own  door  he  had 
reason  for  being  half  dead.  And  even  then  it  would  not  leave  him,  but  followed 
him  up-stairs  with  a bump  on  every,  stair,  scrambled  into  bed  with  him,  and  bumped 
down,  dead  and  heavy,  on  his  breast  when  he  fell  asleep. 

From  his  oppressed  slumber,  Young  Jerry  in  his  closet  was  awakened  after 
daybreak  and  before  sunrise,  by  the  presence  of  his  father  in  the  family  room. 
Something  had  gone  wrong  with  him  ; at  least,  so  Youi.g  Jerry  inferred,  from 
the  circumstance  of  his  holding  Mrs.  Cruncher  by  the  ears,  and  knocking  the 
back  of  her  head  against  the  head-board  of  the  bed. 

“I  told  you  I would,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ and  I did.” 

“ Jerry,  Jerry,  Jerry  ! ” his  wife  implored. 

“ You  oppose  yourself  to  the  profit  of  the  business,”  said  Jerry,  “ and  me  and 
my  partners  suffer.  You  was  to  honour  and  obey  ; why  the  devil  don’t  you  ? ” 

“I  try  to  be  a good  wife,  Jerry,”  the  poor  woman  protested,  with  tears. 

“ Is  it  being  a good  wife  to  oppose  your  husband’s  business  ? Is  it  honouring 
your  husband  to  dishonour  his  business  ? Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to  disobey 
him  on  the  wital  subject  of  his  business  ? ” 

“You  hadn’t  taken  to  the  dreadful  business  then,  Jerry.” 

“ It’s  enough  for  you,”  retorted  Mr.  Cruncher,  “to  be  the  wife  of  a honest 
tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy  your  female  mind  with  calculations  when  he  took 
to  his  trade  or  when  he  didn’t.  A honouring  and  obeying  wife  would  let  his  trade 
alone  altogether.  Call  yourself  a religious  woman  ? If  you’re  a religious  woman, 
give  me  a irreligious  one!  You  have  no  more  nat’ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed  of 
this  here  Thames  river  has  of  a pile,  and  similarly  it  must  be  knocked  into  you.” 
The  altercation  was  conducted  in  a low  tone  of  voice,  and  terminated  in  the 
honest  tradesman’s  kicking  off  his  clay-soiled  boots,  and  lying  down  at  his  length 
on  the  floor.  After  taking  a timid  peep  at  him  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  rusty 
hands  under  his  head  for  a pillow,  his  son  lay  down  too,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

There  was  no  fish  for  breakfast,  and  not  much  of  anything  else.  Mr.  Cruncher 
was  out  of  spirits,  and  out  of  temper,  and  kept  an  iron  pot-lid  by  him  as  a pro- 
jectile for  the  correction  of  Mrs.  Cruncher,  in  case  he  should  observe  any  symptoms 
of  her  saying  Grace.  He  was  brushed  ard  washed  at  the  usual  hour,  and  set  off 
with  his  son  to  pursue  his  ostensible  calling. 

Young  Jerry,  walking  with  the  stool  under  his  arm  at  his  father’s  side  along 
sunny  and  crowded  Fleet  Street,  was  a very  different  Young  Jerry  from  him  ol 
the  previous  night,  running  home  through  darkness  and  solitude  from  his  grim 
pursuer.  His  cunning  was  fresh  with  the  day,  and  his  qualms  were  gone  with 
the  night — in  which  particulars  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  had  compeers  in 
Fleet  Street  and  the  City  of  London,  that  fine  morning. 

“Fathei,”  said  Young  Jerry,  as  they  walked  along:  taking  care  to  keep 
at  arm’s  length  and  to  have  the  stool  well  between  them  : “ what’s  a Rewrrec* 
tion«Man  ? ” 


94  Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Mr.  Cruncher  came  to  a stop  on  the  pavement  before  he  answered,  “ How 
should  I know  ? ” 

“ I thought  you  knowed  everything,  father,”  said  the  Artless  boy. 

“Hem!  Well,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  going  on  again,  and  lifting  off  his 
hat  to  give  his  spikes  free  play,  “he’s  a tradesman.” 

“ What’s  his  goods,  father  ? ” asked  the  brisk  Young  Jerry. 

“His  goods,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  “is  a branch 
of  Scientific  goods.” 

“ Persons’  bodies,  ain’t  it,  father  ? ” asked  the  lively  boy. 

“ I believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher. 

“ Oh,  father,  I should  so  like  to  be  a Resurrection-Man  when  I’m  quite 
growed  up ! ” 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  soothed,  but  shook  his  head  in  a dubious  and  moral  way. 
“ It  depends  upon  how  you  dewelop  your  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  voui 
talents,  and  never  to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to  nobody,  and  there’s  no 
telling  at  the  present  time  what  you  may  not  come  to  b.*  fit  for.”  As  Young 
Jerry,  thus  encouraged,  went  on  a few  yards  in  advance,  to  plant  the  stool  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Bar,  Mr.  Cruncher  added  to  himself:  “Jerry,  you  honest  trades- 
man, there’s  hopes  wot  that  boy  will  yet  be  a blessing  to  you,  and  a recompense 
to  you  for  his  mother  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XV. 

KNITTING. 

There  had  been  earlier  drinking  than  usual  in  the  wine-shop  of  Monsieur 
Defarge.  As  early  as  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  sallow  faces  peeping  through 
its  barred  windows  had  descried  other  faces  within,  bending  over  measures  of 
wine.  Monsieur  Defarge  sold  a very  thin  wine  at  the  best  of  times,  but  it  would 
seem  to  have  been  *n  unusually  thin  wine  that  he  sold  at  this  time.  A sour  wine, 
moreover,  or  a souring,  for  its  influence  on  the  mood  of  those  who  drank  it  was 
to  make  them  gloomy.  No  vivacious  Bacchanalian  flame  leaped  out  of  the 
pressed  grape  of  Monsieur  Defarge  : but,  a smouldering  fire  that  burnt  in  the 
dark,  lay  hidden  in  the  dregs  of  it. 

This  had  been  the  third  morning  in  succession,  on  which  there  had  been  early 
drinking  at  the  wine-shop  of  Monsieur  Defarge.  It  had  begun  on  Monday,  and 
here  was  Wednesday  come.  There  had  been  more  of  early  brooding  than  drink- 
ing ; for,  many  men  had  listened  and  whispered  and  slunk  about  there  from  the 
time  of  the  opening  of  the  door,  who  could  not  have  laid  a piece  of  money  on 
the  counter  to  save  their  souls.  These  were  to  the  full'as  interested  in  the  place, 
however,  as  if  they  could  have  commanded  whole  barrels  of  wine ; and  they 
glided  from  seat  to  seat,  and  from  corner  to  comer,  swallowing  talk  in  lieu  of 
drink,  with  greedy  looks. 

Notwithstanding  an  unusal  flow  of  company,  the  master  of  the  wine-shop  was 
not  visible.  He  was  not  missed  ; for,  nobody  who  crossed  the  threshold  looked 
for  him,  nobody  asked  for  him,  nobody  wondered  to  see  only  Madame  Defarge 
in  her  seat,  presiding  over  the  distribution  of  wine,  with  a bowl  of  battered  small 
coins  before  her,  as  much  defaced  and  beaten  out  of  their  original  impress  as  the 
small  coinage  of  humanity  from  whose  ragged  pockets  they  had  come. 

A suspended  interest  and  a prevalent  absence  of  mind,  were  perhaps  observed 
the  spies  who  looked  in  at  the  wine-shop,  as  they  looked  in  at  every  place, 


The  mender  of  roads , called  Jacques . 


95 


high  and  low,  from  the  king’s  palace  to  the  criminal’s  gaol.  Games  at  cards 
languished,  players  at  dominoes  musingly  built  towers  with  them,  drinkers  drew 
figures  on  the  tables  with  spilt  drops  of  wine,  Madame  Defarge  herself  picked  out 
the  pattern  on  her  sleeve  with  her  toothpick,  and  saw  and  heard  something 
inaudible  and  invisible  a long  way  off. 

Thus,  Saint  Antoine  in  this  vinous  feature  of  his,  until  mid-day.  It  was  high 
noontide,  when  two  dusty  men  passed  through  his  streets  and  under  his  swinging 
lamps  : of  whom,  one  was  Monsieur  Defarge  : the  other  a mender  of  roads  in  a 
blue  cap.  All  adust  and  athirst,  the  two  entered  the  wine-shop.  Their  arrival 
had  lighted  a kind  of  fire  in  the  breast  of  Saint  Antoine,  fast  spreading  as  they 
came  along,  which  stirred  and  flickered  in  flames  of  faces  at  most  doors  and 
windows.  Yet,  no  one  had  followed  them,  and  no  man  spoke  when  they  entered 
the  wine-shop,  though  the  eyes  of  every  man  there  were  turned  upon  them. 

“ Good  day,  gentlemen  ! ” said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

It  may  have  been  a signal  for  loosening  the  general  tongue.  It  elicited  an 
answering  chorus  of  “ Good  day  ! ” 

“ It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen,”  said  Defarge,  shaking  his  head. 

Upon  which,  every  man  looked  at  his  neighbour,  and  then  all  cast  down  their 
eyes  and  sat  silent.  Except  one  man,  who  got  up  and  went  out. 

“ My  wife,”  said  Defarge  aloud,  addressing  Madame  Defarge:  “I  have  tra- 
velled certain  leagues  with  this  good  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  1 met 
him — by  accident — a day  and  half’s  journey  out  of  Paris.  He  is  a good  child, 
this  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  Give  him  to  drink,  my  wife  ! ” 

A second  man  got  up  and  went  out.  Madame  Defarge  set  wine  before  the 
mender  of  roads  called  Jacques,  who  doffed  his  blue  cap  to  the  company,  and 
drank.  In  the  breast  of  his  blouse  he  carried  some  coarse  dark  bread ; he  ate  of 
this  between  whiles,  and  sat  munching  and  drinking  near  Madame  Defarge’s 
counter.  A third  man  got  up  and  went  out. 

Defarge  refreshed  himself  with  a draught  of  wine — but,  he  took  less  than  was 
given  to  the  stranger,  as  being  himself  a man  to  whom  it  was  no  rarity — and  stood 
waiting  until  the  countryman  had  made  his  breakfast.  He  looked  at  no  one  pre- 
sent, and  no  one  now  looked  at  him ; not  even  Madame  Defarge,  who  had  taken 
up  her  knitting,  and  was  at  work. 

“ Have  you  finished  your  repast,  friend  ? ” he  asked,  in  due  season. 

“Yes,  thank  you.” 

“ Come,  then ! You  shall  see  the  apartment  that  I told  you  you  could. occupy. 
It  will  suit  you  to  a marvel.” 

Out  of  the  wine-shop  into  the  street,  out  of  the  street  into  a court-yard,  out 
of  the  court-yard  up  a steep  staircase,  out  of  the  staircase  into  a garret, — formerly 
the  garret  where  a white-haired  man  sat  on  a low  bench,  stooping  forward  and 
very  busy,  making  shoes. 

No  white-haired  man  was  there  now  ; but,  the  three  men  were  there  who  had 
gone  out  of  the  wine-shop  singly.  And  between  them  and  the  white-haired  man 
afar  off,  was  the  one  small  link,  that  they  had  once  looked  in  at  him  through  the 
chinks  in  the  wall. 

Defarge  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  spoke  in  a subdued  voice  : 

“Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three ! This  is  the  witness  encountered 
by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques  Four.  He  will  tell  you  all.  Speak,  Jacque# 
Five ! ” 

The  mender  of  roads,  blue  cap  in  hand,  wiped  his  swarthy  forehead  with  it; 
and  said,  “ Where  shall  I commence,  monsieur?” 

“Commence,”  was  Monsieur  Defarge’s  not  unreasonable  reply,  “at  the  com 
■aencement.” 


96 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


‘‘I  saw  him  then,  messieurs,”  began  the  mender  of  roads,  “a  year  ago  this 
running  summer,  underneath  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain. 
Behold  the  manner  of  it.  I leaving  my  work  on  the  road,  the  sun  going  to  bed, 
the  carriage  of  the  Marquis  slowly  ascending  the  hill,  he  hanging  by  the  chain — 
like  this.” 

Again  the  mender  of  roads  went  through  the  whole  performance ; in  which 
he  ought  to  have  been  perfect  by  that  time,  seeing  that  it  had  been  the  in- 
fallible resource  and  indispensable  entertainment  of  his  village  during  a whole 
year. 

Jacques  One  struck  in,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever  seen  the  man  before  ? 

44  Never,”  answered  the  mender  of  roads,  recovering  his  perpendicular. 

Jacques  Three  demanded  how  he  afterwards  recognised  him  then  ? 

“ By  his  tail  figure,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  softly,  and  with  his  finger  at  his 
nose.  44  When  Monsieur  the  Marquis  demands  that  evening,  ‘ Say,  what  is  he 
like  ? ’ I make  response,  4 Tall  as  a spectre.’  ” 

44  You  should  have  said,  short  as  a dwarf,”  returned  Jacques  Two. 

44  But  what  did  I know  ? The  deed  was  not  then  accomplished,  neither  did  he 
confide  in  me.  Observe ! Under  those  circumstances  even,  I do  not  offer  my 
testimony.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  indicates  me  with  his  finger,  standing  near  our 
little  fountain,  and  says,  4 To  me ! Bring  that  rascal ! ’ My  faith,  messieurs, 
I offer  nothing.” 

“ He  is  right  there,  Jacques,”  murmured  Defarge,  to  him  who  had  interrupted. 
44  Go  on  ! ” 

44  Good  ! ” said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  an  air  of  mystery.  “The  tall  man  is 
lost,  and  he  is  sought — how  many  months  ? Nine,  ten,  eleven  ? ” 

44  No  matter,  the  number,”  said  Defarge.  44  He  is  well  hidden,  but  at  last  he  is 
unluckily  found.  Go  on  ! ” 

44 1 am  again  at  work  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun  is  again  about  to  go  to  bed. 
I am  collecting  my  tools  to  descend  to  my  cottage  down  in  the  village  below, 
where  it  is  already  dark,  when  I raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming  over  the  hill  six 
soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a tall  man  with  his  arms  bound — tied  to  his 
sides — like  this  ! ” 

With  the  aid  of  his  indispensable  cap,  he  represented  a man  with  his  elbows 
bound  fast  at  his  hips,  with  cords  that  were  knotted  behind  him. 

44 1 stand  aside,  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of  stones,  to  see  the  soldiers  and  their 
prisoner  pass  (for  it  is  a solitary  road,  that,  where  any  spectacle  is  well  worth 
looking  at),  and  at  first,  as  they  approach,  I see  no  more  than  that  they  are  six 
soldiers  with  a tall  man  bound,  and  that  they  are  almost  black  to  my  sight — 
except  on  the  side  of  the  sun  going  to  bed,  where  they  have  a red  edge,  messieurs. 
Also,  I see  that  their  long  shadows  are  on  the  hollow  ridge  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  road,  and  are  on  the  hill  above  it,  and  are  like  the  shadows  of  giants.  Also, 
I see  that  they  are  covered  with  dust,  and  that  the  dust  moves  with  them  as  they 
come,  tramp,  tramp ! But  when  they  advance  quite  near  to  me,  I recognise  the 
tall  man,  and  he  recognises  me.  Ah,  but  he  would  be  well  content  to  precipitate 
himself  over  the  hill-side  once  again,  as  on  the  evening  when  he  and  I first  encoun- 
tered, close  to  the  same  spot ! ” 

He  described  it  as  if  he  were  there,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  saw  it  vividly ; 
perhaps  he  had  not  seen  much  in  his  life. 

44 1 do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I recognise  the  tall  man ; he  does  not  show  the 
soldiers  that  he  recognises  me  ; we  do  it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes.  4 Come 
on ! ’ says  fhe  chief  of  that  company,  pointing  to  the  village,  4 bring  him  fast  to 
his  tomb ! * and  they  bring  him  faster.  I follow.  His  arms  are  swelled  because 
©1  being  bound  so  tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are  large  and  clumsy,  and  he  is  lame. 


The  mender  of  roads  tells  his  Tale . 97 

Because  he  is  lame,  and  consequently  slow,  they  drive  him  with  their  guns — like 
this ! ” 

He  imitated  the  action  of  a man’s  being  impelled  forward  by  the  butt-ends  of 
muskets. 

“ As  they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a race,  he  falls  They  laugh 
and  pick  him  up  again.  His  face  is  bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  cannot 
touch  it ; thereupon  they  laugh  again.  They  bring  him  into  the  village  ; all  the 
village  runs  to  look ; they  take  him  past  the  mill,  and  up  to  the  prison  ; all 
the  village  sees  the  prison  gate  open  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  swallow  him 
- — like  this  ! ” 

He  opened  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  shut  it  with  a sounding  snap  of 
his  teeth.  Observant  of  his  unwillingness  to  mar  the  effect  by  opening  it  again, 
Defarge  said,  “ Go  on,  Jacques.” 

“All  the  village,”  pursued  the  mender  of  roads,  on  tiptoe  and  in  a low  voice, 
“withdraws;  all  the  village  whispers  by  the  fountain;  all  the  village  sleeps;  all 
the  village  dreams  of  that  unhappy  one,  within  the  locks  and  bars  of  the  prison  on 
the  crag,  and  never  to  come  out  of  it,  except  to  perish.  In  the  morning,  with  my 
tools  upon  my  shoulder,  eating  my  morsel  of  black  bread  as  I go,  I make  a circuit 
by  the  prison,  on  my  way  to  my  work.  There  I see  him,  high  up,  behind  the  bars 
of  a lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dusty  as  last  night,  looking  through.  He  has 
no  hand  free,  to  wave  to  me ; I dare  not  call  to  him ; he  regards  me  like  a dead 
man.” 

Defarge  and  the  three  glanced  darkly  at  one  another.  The  looks  of  all  of  them 
were  dark,  repressed,  and  revengeful,  as  they  listened  to  the  countryman’s  story ; 
the  manner  of  all  of  them,  while  it  was  secret,  was  authoritative  too.  They  had  the 
air  of  a rough  tribunal ; Jacques  One  and  Two  sitting  on  the  old  pallet-bed,  each 
with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  intent  on  the  road-mender ; Jacques 
Three,  equally  intent,  on  one  knee  behind  them,  with  his  agitated  hand  always 
gliding  over  the  network  of  fine  nerves  about  his  mouth  and  nose ; Defarge  stand- 
ing between  them  and  the  narrator,  whom  he  had  stationed  in  the  light  of  the 
window,  by  turns  looking  from  him  to  them,  and  from  them  to  him. 

“ Go  on,  Jacques,”  said  Defarge. 

“ He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron  cage  some  days.  The  village  looks  at  him  by 
stealth,  for  it  is  afraid.  But  it  always  looks  up,  from  a distance,  at  the  prison  on 
the  crag;  and  in  the  evening,  when  the  work  of  the  day  is  achieved  and  it 
assembles  to  gossip  at  the  fountain,  all  faces  are  turned  towards  the  prison. 
Formerly,  they  were  turned  towards  the  posting-house;  now,  they  are  turned 
towards  the  prison.  They  whisper  at  the  fountain,  that  although  condemned  to 
death  he  will  not  be  executed;  they  say  that  petitions  have  been  presented  in 
Paris,  showing  that  he  was  enraged  and  made  mad  by  the  death  of  his  child ; 
they  say  that  a petition  has  been  presented  to  the  King  himself.  What  do  I 
know  ? It  is  possible.  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no.” 

“ Listen  then,  Jacques,”  Number  One  of  that  name  sternly  interposed.  “ Know 
that  a petition  was  presented  to  the  King  and  Queen.  All  here,  yourself  excepted, 
saw  the  King  take  it,  in  his  carriage  in  the  street,  sitting  beside  the  Queen.  It  is 
Defarge  whom  you  see  here,  who,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  darted  out  before  the 
horses,  with  the  petition  in  his  hand.” 

“ And  once  again  listen,  Jacques  ! ” said  the  kneeling  Number  Three : his 
fingers  ever  wandering  over  and  over  those  fine  nerves,  with  a strikingly  greedy 
air,  as  if  he  hungered  for  something — that  was  neither  food  nor  drink ; “ the 
guard,  horse  and  foot,  surrounded  the  petitioner,  and  struck  him  blows.  You 

hear?” 

M I hear,  messieurs.” 

H 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


& 

**  Go  on  then/’  said  Defarge. 

“Again;  on  the  other  hand,  they  whisper  at  the  fountain/’  resumed  the 
countryman,  “that  he  is  brought  down  into  our  country  to  be  executed  on  the 
spot,  and  that  he  will  very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper  that  be- 
cause he  has  slain  Monseigneur,  and  because  Monseigneur  was  'the  father  of  his 
tenants — se:fs — what  you  will — he  will  be  executed  as  a parricide.  One  old  man 
says  at  the  fountain,  that  his  right  hand,  armed  with  the  knife,  will  be  burnt  off 
before  his  face  ; that,  into  wounds  which  will  be  made  in  his  arms,  his  breast,  and 
his  legs,  there  will  be  poured  boiling  oil,  melted  lead,  hot  resin,  wax,  and  sulphur; 
finally,  that  he  will  be  tom  limb  from  limb  by  four  strong  horses.  That  old  man 
says,  all  this  was  actually  done  to  a prisoner  who  made  an  attempt  on  the  life  of 
the  late  King,  Louis  Fifteen.  But  how  do  I know  if  he  lies  ? I am  not  a 
scholar.” 

“ Listen  once  again  then,  Jacques  ! ” said  the  man  with  the  restless  hand  and 
the  craving  air.  “ The  name  of  that  prisoner  was  Damiens,  and  it  was  all  done  in 
open  day,  in  the  open  streets  of  this  city  of  Paris  ; and  nothing  was  more  noticed 
in  the  vast  concourse  that  saw  it  done,  than  the  crowd  of  ladies  of  quality  and 
fashion,  who  were  full  of  eager  attention  to  the  last — to  the  last,  Jacques,  prolonged 
until  nightfall,  when  he  had  lost  two  legs  and  an  arm,  and  still  breathed  ! And  it 
was  done — why,  how  old  are  you  ?” 

“ Thirty-five,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  who  looked  sixty. 

“It  was  done  when  you  were  more  than  ten  years  old;  you  might  have 
seen  it.” 

“Enough!”  said  Defarge,  with  grim  impatience.  “Long  live  the  Devil! 
Go  on.” 

“ Well ! Some  whisper  this,  some  whisper  that ; they  speak  of  nothing  else  ; 
even  the  fountain  appears  to  fall  to  that  tune.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night  when 
all  the  village  is  asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding  down  from  the  prison,  and  their 
guns  ring  on  the  stones  of  the  little  street.  Workmen  dig,  workmen  hammer, 
soldiers  laugh  and  sing ; in  the  morning,  by  the  fountain,  there  is  raised  a gallows 
forty  feet  high,  poisoning  the  water.” 

The  mender  of  roads  looked  through  rather  than  at  the  low  ceiling,  and  pointed 
as  if  he  saw  the  gallows  somewhere  in  the  sky. 

4 ‘ All  work  is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads  the  cows  out,  the  cows 
are  there  with  the  rest.  At  midday,  the  roll  of  drums.  Soldiers  have  marched 
into  the  prison  in  the  night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  soldiers.  He  is 
bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a gag — tied  so,  with  a tight  string, 
making  him  look  almost  as  if  he  laughed.”  He  suggested  it,  by  creasing  his 
face  with  his  two  thumbs,  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to  his  ears.  “ On  the  top 
of  the  gallows  is  fixed  the  knife,  blade  upwards,  with  its  point  in  the  air.  He  is 
hanged  there  forty  feet  high — and  is  left  hanging,  poisoning  the  water.” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  as  he  used  his  blue  cap  to  wipe  his  face,  on  which 
the  perspiration  had  started  afresh  while  he  recalled  the  spectacle. 

“ It  is  frightful,  messieurs.  How  can  the  women  and  the  children  draw  water! 
Who  can  gossip  of  an  evening,  under  that  shadow ! Under  it,  have  I said  ? 
When  I left  the  village,  Monday  evening  as  the  sun  was  going  to  bed,  and  looked 
back  from  the  hill,  the  shadow  struck  across  the  church,  across  the  mill,  across 
the  prison — seemed  to  strike  across  the  earth,  messieurs,  to  where  the  sky  rests 
upon  it ! ” 

The  hungry  man  gnawed  one  of  his  fingers  as  he  looked  at  the  other  three,  and 
his  finger  quivered  with  the  craving  that  was  on  him. 

“ That’s  all,  messieurs.  I left  at  sunset  (as  I had  been  warned  to  do),  and  I 
walked  on,  that  night  and  half  next  day,  until  I met  (as  I was  warned  I should) 


The  mender  of  roads  continues . gg 

this  comrade.  With  him,  I came  on,  now  riding  and  now  walking,  through  the 
rest  of  yesterday  and  through  last  night.  And  here  you  see  me  ! ” 

After  a gloomy  silence,  the  first  Jacques  said,  “ Good  ! You  have  acted  ami 
recounted  faithfully.  Will  you  wait  for  us  a little,  outside  the  door  ?” 

“ Very  willingly,”  said  the  mender  of  roads.  Whom  Defarge  escorted  to  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and,  leaving  seated  there,  returned. 

The  three  had  risen,  and  their  heads  were  together  when  he  came  back  to 
the  garret. 

“ How  say  you,  Jacques  ?”  demanded  Number  One.  “To  be  registered  ?” 

“ To  be  registered,  as  doomed  to  destruction,”  returned  Defarge. 

“ Magnificent ! ” croaked  the  man  with  the  craving. 

“The  chateau,  and  all  the  race  ?”  inquired  the  first. 

“ The  chateau  and  all  the  race,”  returned  Defarge.  “ Extermination.” 

The  hungry  man  repeated,  in  a rapturous  croak,  “Magnificent!”  and  began 
gnawing  another  finger. 

“ Are  you  sure,”  asked  Jacques  Two,  of  Defarge,  “ that  no  embarrassment  can 
arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping  the  register  ? Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no 
one  beyond  ourselves  can  decipher  it ; but  shall  we  always  be  able  to  decipher  it 
- — or,  I ought  to  say,  will  she  ?” 

“Jacques,”  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up,  “if  madame  my  wife  under- 
took to  keep  the  register  in  her  memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a word  of  it — 
not  a syllable  of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches  and  her  own  symbols,  it  will 
always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the  sun.  Confide  in  Madame  Defarge.  It  would  be 
easier  for  the  weakest  poltroon  that  lives,  to  erase  himself  from  existence,  than 
to  erase  one  letter  of  his  name  or  crimes  from  the  knitted  register  of  Madame 
Defarge.” 

There  was  a murmur  of  confidence  and  approval,  and  then  the  man  who 
hungered,  asked  : “Is  this  rustic  to  be  sent  back  soon  ? I hope  so.  He  is  very 
simple  ; is  he  not  a little  dangerous  ?” 

“He  knows  nothing,”  said  Defarge;  “ at  least  nothing  more  than  would  easily 
elevate  himself  to  a gallows  of  the  same  height.  I charge  myself  with  him  ; let 
him  remain  with  me  ; I will  take  care  of  him,  and  set  him  on  his  road.  He 
wishes  to  see  the  fine  world — the  King,  the  Queen,  and  Court ; let  him  see  them 
on  Sunday.” 

“ What  ?”  exclaimed  the  hungry  man,  staring.  “ Is  it  a good  sign,  that  he 
wishes  to  see  Royalty  and  Nobility  ?” 

“Jacques,”  said  Defarge;  “judiciously  show  a cat  milk,  if  you  wish  her  to 
thirst  for  it.  Judiciously  show  a dog  his  natural  prey,  if  you  wish  him  to  bring 
it  down  one  day.” 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  mender  of  roads,  being  found  already  dozing 
on  the  topmost  stair,  was  advised  to  lay  himself  down  on  the  pallet-bed  and  take 
some  rest.  He  needed  no  persuasion,  and  was  soon  asleep. 

Worse  quarters  than  Defarge’s  wine-shop,  could  easily  have  been  found  in 
Paris  for  a provincial  slave  of  that  degree.  Saving  for  a mysterious  dread  of 
madame  by  which  he  was  constantly  haunted,  his  life  was  very  new  and  agreeable. 
But,  madame  sat  all  day  at  her  counter,  so  expressly  unconscious  of  him,  and  so 
particularly  determined  not  to  perceive  that  his  being  there  had  any  connexion 
with  anything  below  the  surface,  that  he  shook  in  his  wooden  shoes  whenever  his 
eye  lighted  on  her.  For,  he  contended  with  himself  that  it  was  impossible  to 
foresee  what  that  lady  might  pretend  next ; and  he  felt  assured  that  if  she  should 
take  it  into  her  brightly  ornamented  head  to  pretend  that  she  had  seen  him  do  a 
murder  and  afterwards  flay  the  victim,  she  would  infallibly  go  5hrot  gh  with  it 
until  the  play  was  played  out. 


TOO 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Therefore,  when  Sunday  came,  the  mender  of  roads  was  not  enchanted  (though 
he  said  he  was)  to  find  that  madame  was  to  accompany  monsieur  and  himst  lf  1 1 
Versailles.  It  was  additionally  disconcerting  to  have  madame  knitting  all  the 
way  there,  in  a public  conveyance  ; it  was  additionally  disconcerting  yet,  to  have 
madame  in  the  crowd  in  the  afternoon,  still  with  her  knitting  in  her  hands  as  the 
crowd  waited  to  see  the  carriage  of  the  King  and  Queen. 

“ You  work  hard,  madame,”  said  a man  near  her. 

“ Yes,”  answered  Madame  Defarge ; “ I have  a good  deal  to  do.w 
u What  do  you  make,  madame  ?” 

“ Many  things.” 

4t  For  instance ” 

“ For  instance,”  returned  Madame  Defarge,  composedly,  “ shrouds.” 

The  man  moved  a little  further  away,  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  the  mender  of 
roads  fanned  himself  with  his  blue  cap  : feeling  it  mightily  close  and  oppressive. 
If  he  needed  a King  and  Queen  to  restore  him,  he  was  fortunate  in  having  his 
remedy  at  hand ; for,  soon  the  large-faced  King  and  the  fair-faced  Queen  camo 
in  their  golden  coach,  attended  by  the  shining  Bull’s  Eye  of  their  Court,  a glitter- 
ing multitude  of  laughing  ladies  and  fine  lords ; and  in  jewels  and  silks  and 
powder  and  splendour  and  elegantly  spurning  figures  and  handsomely  disdainful 
faces  of  both  sexes,  the  mender  of  roads  bathed  himself,  so  much  to  his  temporary 
intoxication,  that  he  cried  Long  live  the  King,  Long  live  the  Queen,  Long  live 
everybody  and  everything  ! as  if  he  hud  never  heard  of  ubiquitous  Jacques  in  his 
time.  Then,  there  were  gardens,  court-yards,  terraces,  fountains,  green  banks, 
more  King  and  Queen,  more  Bull’s  Eye,  more  lords  and  ladies,  more  Long  live 
they  all ! until  he  absolutely  wept  with  sentiment.  During  the  whole  of  this 
scene,  which  lasted  some  three  hours,  he  had  plenty  of  shouting  and  weeping 
and  sentimental  company,  and  throughout  Defarge  held  him  by  the  collar,  as  if 
to  restrain  him  from  flying  at  the  objects  of  his  brief  devotion  and  tearing  them 
to  pieces. 

“ Bravo !”  said  Defarge,  clapping  him  on  the  back  when  it  was  over,  like  a 
patron ; “ you  are  a good  boy  !” 

The  mender  of  roads  was  now  coming  to  himself,  and  was  mistrustful  of  having 
made  a mistake  in  his  late  demonstrations  ; but  no. 

“You  are  the  fellow  we  want,”  said  Defarge,  in  his  ear;  “ you  make  these  fools 
believe  that  it  will  last  for  ever.  Then,  they  are  the  more  insolent,  and  it  is  the 
nearer  ended.” 

“ Hey  !”  cried  the  mender  of  roads,  reflectively;  “ that’s  true.” 

“ These  fools  know  nothing.  While  they  despise  your  breath,  and  would  stop 
it  for  ever  and  ever,  in  you  or  in  a hundred  like  you  rather  than  in  one  of  their 
own  horses  or  dogs,  they  only  know  what  your  breath  tells  them.  Let  it  deceive 
them,  then,  a little  longer  ; it  cannot  deceive  them  too  much.” 

Madame  Defarge  looked  superciliously  at  the  client,  and  nodded  in  con- 
firmation. 

“As  to  you,”  said  she,  “you  would  shout  and  shed  tears  for  anything,  if  it 
made  a show  and  a noise.  Say  ! Would  you  not  ?” 

“ Truly,  madame,  I think  so.  For  the  moment.”  • 

“ If  you  were  shown  a great  heap  of  dolls,  and  were  set  upon  them  to  pluck 
them  to  pieces  and  despoil  them  for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  pick  out  the 
richest  and  gayest.  Say  ! Would  you  not  ?” 
u Truly  yes,  madame.” 

“ Yes.  And  if  you  were  shown  a flock  of  birds,  unable  to  fly,  and  were  set 
upon  them  to  strip  them  of  their  feathers  for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  set 
upon  the  birds  of  the  finest  feathers ; would  you  not  ?” 


John  Bar  sal  s description . 


101 


“ It  is  true,  madame.,, 

“ You  have  seen  both  dolls  and  birds  to-day,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand  towards  the  place  where  they  had  last  been  apparent;  “now, 
go  home  1” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

STILL  KNITTING. 

Madame  Defarge  and  monsieur  her  husband  returned  amicably  to  the  bosom 
of  Saint  Antoine,  while  a speck  in  a blue  cap  toiled  through  the  darkness,  and 
through  the  dust,  and  down  the  weary  miles  of  avenue  by  the  wayside,  slowly 
tending  towards  that  point  of  the  compass  where  the  chateau  of  Monsieur  the 
Marquis,  now  in  his  grave,  listened  to  the  whispering  trees.  Such  ample  leisure 
had  the  stone  faces,  now,  for  listening  to  the  trees  and  to  the  fountain,  that  the 
few  village  scarecrows  who,  in  their  quest  for  herbs  to  eat  and  fragments  of  dead 
stick  to  burn,  strayed  within  sight  of  the  great  stone  court-yard  and  terrace  stair- 
case, had  it  borne  in  upon  their  starved  fancy  that  the  expression  of  the  faces  was 
altered.  A rumour  just  lived  in  the  village — had  a faint  and  bare  existence  there, 
as  its  people  had — that  when  the  knife  struck  home,  the  faces  changed,  from  faces 
of  pride  to  faces  of  anger  and  pain ; also,  that  when  that  dangling  figure  was 
hauled  up  forty  feet  above  the  fountain,  they  changed  again,  and  bore  a cruel 
look  of  being  avenged,  which  they  would  henceforth  bear  for  ever.  In  the  stone 
face  over  the  great  window  of  the  bed-chamber  where  the  murder  was  done,  two 
fine  dints  were  pointed  out  in  the  sculptured  nose,  which  everybody  recognised, 
and  which  nobody  had  seen  of  old  ; and  on  the  scarce  occasions  when  two  or 
three  ragged  peasants  emerged  from  the  crowd  to  take  a hurried  peep  at  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  petrified,  a skinny  finger  would  not  have  pointed  to  it  for  a minute, 
before  they  all  started  away  among  the  moss  and  leaves,  like  the  more  fortunate 
hares  who  could  find  a living  there. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  figure,  the  red  stain  on  the  stone 
floor,  and  the  pure  water  in  the  village  well — thousands  of  acres  of  land — a whole 
province  of  France — all  France  itself — lay  under  the  night  sky,  concentrated  into  a 
faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does  a whole  world,  with  all  its  greatnesses  and  little- 
nesses, lie  in  a twinkling  star.  And  as  mere  human  knowledge  can  split  a ray  of 
light  and  analyse  the  manner  of  its  composition,  so,  sublimer  intelligences  may 
read  in  the  feeble  shining  of  this  earth  of  ours,  every  thought  and  act,  every  vice 
and  virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature  on  it. 

The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  came  lumbering  under  the  starlight,  in  their 
public  vehicle,  to  that  gate  of  Paris  whereunto  their  journey  naturally  tended. 
There  was  the  usual  stoppage  at  the  barrier  guard-house,  and  the  usual  lanterns 
came  glancing  forth  for  the  usual  examination  and  inquiry.  Monsieur  Defarge 
alighted  ; knowing  one  or  two  of  the  soldiery  there,  and  one  of  the  police.  The 
latter  he  was  intimate  with,  and  affectionately  embraced. 

When  Saint  Antoine  had  again  enfolded  the  Defarges  in  his  dusky  wings,  and 
they,  having  finally  alighted  near  the  Saint’s  boundaries,  were  picking  their  way 
on  foot  through  the  black  mud  and  offal  of  his  streets,  Madame  Defarge  spoke  to 
her  husband  : 

“ Say  then,  my  friend  ; what  did  Jacques  of  the  police  tell  thee  ?M 

“ Very  little  to-night,  but  all  he  knows.  There  is  another  spy  commissioned 
for  our  quarter.  There  may  be  many  more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  kno^fr 
of  cue.* 


A Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities . 


“Eh  well!”  said  Madame  Defarge,  raising  her  eyebrows  with  a cool  business 
air.  “It  is  necessary  to  register  him.  How  do  they  call  that  man  ?” 

4<  He  is  English.” 

“ So  much  the  better.  His  name  ?” 

“ Barsad,”  said  Defarge,  making  it  French  by  pronunciation.  But,  he  had 
been  so  careful  to  get  it  accurately,  that  he  then  spelt  it  with  perfect  correctness. 

“ Barsad,”  repeated  madarne.  “ Good.  Christian  name  ?” 

“John.” 

“ John  Barsad,”  repeated  madarne,  after  murmuring  it  once  to  herself.  “ Good. 
His  appearance  ; is  it  known  ?” 

“Age,  about  forty  years  ; height,  about  five  feet  nine  ; black  hair;  complexion 
dark  ; generally,  rather  handsome  visage ; eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow ; 
nose  aquiline,  but  not  straight,  having  a peculiar  inclination  towards  the  left 
cheek  ; expression,  therefore,  sinister.” 

“Eh  my  faith.  It  is  a portrait!”  said  madarne,  laughing.  “He  shall  be 
registered  to-morrow.” 

They  turned  into  the  wine-shop,  which  was  closed  (for  it  was  midnight),  and 
where  Madame  Defarge  immediately  took  her  post  at  her  desk,  counted  the  small 
moneys  that  had  been  taken  during  her  absence,  examined  the  stock,  went  through 
the  entries  in  the  book,  made  other  entries  of  her  own,  checked  the  serving  man  in 
every  possible  way,  and  finally  dismissed  him  to  bed.  Then  she  turned  out  the 
contents  of  the  bowl  of  money  for  the  second  time,  and  began  knotting  them  up 
in  her  handkerchief,  in  a chain  of  separate  knots,  for  safe  keeping  through  the 
night.  All  this  while,  Defarge,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  walked  up  and  down, 
complacently  admiring,  but  never  interfering  ; in  which  condition,  indeed,  as  to 
the  business  and  his  domestic  affairs,  he  walked  up  and  down  through  life. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  the  shop,  close  shut  and  surrounded  by  so  foul  a neigh- 
bourhood, was  ill-smelling.  Monsieur  Defarge’s  olfactory  sense  was  by  no  means 
delicate,  but  the  stock  of  wine  smelt  much  stronger  than  it  ever  tasted,  and  so  did 
the  stock  of  rum  and  brandy  and  aniseed.  He  whiffed  the  compound  of  scents 
away,  as  he  put  down  his  smoked-out  pipe. 

“ You  are  fatigued,”  said  madarne,  raising  her  glance  as  she  knotted  the  money. 
“There  are  only  the  usual  odours.” 

“I  am  a little  tired,”  her  husband  acknowledged. 

“You  are  a little  depressed,  too,”  said  madarne,  whose  quick  eyes  had  never 
been  so  intent  on  the  accounts,  but  they  had  had  a ray  or  two  for  him.  “ Oh,  the 
men,  the  men !” 

“ But  my  dear !”  began  Defarge. 

“ But  my  dear  !”  repeated  madarne,  nodding  firmly ; “ but  my  dear!  You  are 
faint  of  heart  to-night,  my  dear!” 

“ Well,  then,”  said  Defarge,  as  if  a thought  were  wrung  out  of  his  breast,  “it 
is  a long  time.” 

“It  is  along  time,”  repeated  his  wife;  “and  when  is  it  not  a long  time? 
Vengeance  and  retribution  require  a long  time  ; it  is  the  rule.” 

“It  does  not  take  a long  time  to  strike  a man  with  Lightning,”  said  Defarge. 

“ How  long,”  demanded  madarne,  composedly,  “ does  it  take  to  make  and  store 
the  lightning  ? Tell  me.” 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if  there  were  something  in  that 
too. 

“It  does  not  take  a long  time,”  said  madarne,  “for  an  earthquake  to  swallow  a 
town.  Eli  well ! Tell  me  how  long  it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake  ?” 

“ A long  time,  I suppose,”  said  Defarge. 

" But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and  grinds  to  pieces  everything  before  it* 


John  Bar  sad  himselj . 103 

In  the  meantime,  it  is  always  preparing,  though  it  is  not  seen  or  heard.  That  is 
your  consolation.  Keep  it.” 

She  tied  a knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it  throttled  a foe. 

“I  tell  thee,”  said  madame,  extending  her  right  hand,  for  emphasis,  “that 
although  it  is  a long  time  on  the  road,  it  is  on  the  road  and  coming.  I tell  thee 
it  never  retreats,  and  never  stops.  I tell  thee  it  is  always  advancing.  Look  around 
and  consider  the  lives  of  all  the  world  that  we  know,  consider  the  faces  of  all  the 
world  that  we  know,  consider  the  rage  and  discontent  to  which  the  Jacquerie 
addresses  itself  with  more  and  more  of  certainty  every  hour.  Can  such  things 
last  ? Bah  ! I mock  you.” 

“ My  brave  wife,”  returned  Defarge,  standing  before  her  with  his  head  a little 
bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at  his  back,  like  a docile  and  attentive  pupil  before 
his  catechist,  “ I do  not  question  all  this.  But  it  has  lasted  a long  time,  and  it  is 
possible — you  know  well,  my  wife,  it  is  possible — that  it  may  not  come,  during  our 
lives.” 

“Eli  well ! How  then  ?”  demanded  madame,  tying  another  knot,  as  if  there 
were  another  enemy  strangled. 

“Well!”  said  Defarge,  with  a half  complaining  and  half  apologetic  shrug. 
“ We  shall  not  see  the  triumph.” 

“ We  shall  have  helped  it,”  returned  madame,  with  her  extended  hand  in  strong 
action.  “Nothing  that  we  do,  is  done  in  vain.  I believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that 
we  shall  see  the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I knew  certainly  not,  show 
me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and  tyrant,  and  still  I would ” 

Then  madame,  with  her  teeth  set,  tied  a very  terrible  knot  indeed. 

“ Hold  ! ” cried  Defarge,  reddening  a little  as  if  he  felt  charged  with  cowardice  ; 
“ I too,  my  dear,  will  stop  at  nothing.” 

“Yes!  But  it  is  your  weakness  that  you  sometimes  need  to  see  your  victim 
and  your  opportunity,  to  sustain  you.  Sustain  yourself  without  that.  When  the 
time  comes,  let  loose  a tiger  and  a devil ; but  wait  for  the  time  with  the  tiger  and 
the  devil  chained — not  shown — yet  always  ready.” 

Madame  enforced  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  of  advice  by  striking  her  little 
counter  with  her  chain  of  money  as  if  she  knocked  its  brains  out,  and  then  gather- 
ing the  heavy  handkerchief  under  her  arm  in  a serene  manner,  and  observing  that 
it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  noontide  saw  the  admirable  woman  in  her  usual  place  in  the  wine-shop, 
knitting  away  assiduously.  A rose  lay  beside  her,  and  if  she  now  and  then 
glanced  at  the  flower,  it  was  with  no  infraction  of  her  usual  pre-occupied  air. 
There  were  a few  customers,  drinking  or  not  drinking,  standing  or  seated,  sprinkled 
about.  The  day  -was  very  hot,  and  heaps  of  flies,  who  were  extending  their  in- 
quisitive and  adventurous  perquisitions  into  all  the  glutinous  little  glasses  near 
madame,  fell  dead  at  the  bottom.  Their  decease  made  no  impression  on  the  other 
flies  out  promenading,  who  looked  at  them  in  the  coolest  manner  (as  if  they  them- 
selves were  elephants,  or  something  as  far  removed),  until  they  met  the  same 
fate.  Curious  to  consider  how  heedless  flies  are  ! — perhaps  they  thought  as  much 
at  Court  that  sunny  summer  day. 

A figure  entering  at  the  door  threw  a shadow  on  Madame  Defarge  which  she  felt 
to  be  a new  one.  She  laid  down  her  knitting,  and  began  to  pin  her  rose  in  her 
head-dress,  before  she  looked  at  the  figure. 

It  was  curious.  The  moment  Madame  Defarge  took  up  the  rose,  the  customers 
ceased  talking,  and  began  gradually  to  drop  out  of  the  wine-shop. 

“ Good  day,  madame,”  said  the  new  comer. 

u Good  day,  monsieur.” 

She  said  it  aloud,  but  added  to  herself,  as  she  resumed  her  knitting:  u Hahf 


J Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


104 

Good  day,  age  about  forty,  height  about  five  feet  nine,  black  hair,  generally 
rather  handsome  visage,  complexion  dark,  eyes  dark,  thin  long  and  sallow  face, 
aquiline  nose  but  not  straight,  having  a peculiar  inclination  towards  the  left 
cheek  which  imparts  a sinister  expression ! Good  day,  one  and  all ! ” 

“ Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  a little  glass  of  old  cognac,  and  a mouthful  ol 
cool  fresh  water,  madame.” 

Madame  complied  with  a polite  air. 

“ Marvellous  cognac  this,  madame  ! ” 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  been  so  complimented,  and  Madame  De- 
farge  knew  enough  of  its  antecedents  to  know  better.  She  said,  however, 

that  the  cognac  was  flattered,  and  took  up  her  knitting.  The  visitor  watched 
her  fingers  for  a few  moments,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  observing  the  place  in 
general. 

“ You  knit  with  great  skill,  madame.” 

“ I am  accustomed  to  it.” 

“ A pretty  pattern  too  ! ” 

M You  think  so  ? ” said  madame,  looking  at  him  with  a smile. 

“ Decidedly.  May  one  ask  what  it  is  for  ? ” 

“Pastime,”  said  madame,  still  looking  at  him  with  a smile,  while  her  fingers 
moved  nimbly. 

“ Not  for  use  ? ” 

“ That  depends.  I may  find  a use  for  it  one  day.  If  I do well,”  said 

madame,  drawing  a breath  and  nodding  her  head  with  a stern  kind  of  coquetry, 
“I’ll  use  it!  ” 

It  was  remarkable;  but,  the  taste  of  Saint  Antoine  seemed  to  be  decidedly 
opposed  to  a rose  on  the  head-dress  of  Madame  Defarge.  Two  men  had  entered 
separately,  and  had  been  about  to  order  drink,  when,  catching  sight  of  that 
novelty,  they  faltered,  made  a pretence  of  looking  about  as  if  for  some  friend  who 
was  not  there,  and  went  away.  Nor,  of  those  who  had  been  there  when  this 
visitor  entered,  was  there  one  left.  They  had  all  dropped  off.  The  spy  had  kept 
his  eyes  open,  but  had  been  able  to  detect  no  sign.  They  had  lounged  away  in  a 
poverty-stricken,  purposeless,  accidental  manner,  quite  natural  and  unimpeachable. 

“John,”  thought  madame,  checking  off  her  work  as  her  fingers  knitted,  and 
her  eyes  looked  at  the  stranger.  “ Stay  long  enough,  and  I shall  knit  ‘ Barsad  * 
before  you  go.” 

“You  have  a husband,  madame  ?” 

“ I have.” 

“Children?” 

“ No  children.” 

“ Business  seems  bad  ? ” 

“Business  is  very  bad  ; the  people  are  so  poor.” 

“ Ah,  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people  ! So  oppressed,  too — as  you  say.” 
“As  you  say,”  madame  retorted,  correcting  him,  and  deftly  knitting  an  extra 
something  into  his  name  that  boded  him  no  good. 

“Pardon  me  ; certainly  it  was  I who  said  so,  but  you  naturally  think  so.  Of 
course.” 

“/think?”  returned  madame,  in  a high  voice.  “land  my  husband  have 
enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine-shop  open,  without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here, 
is  how  to  live.  That  is  the  subject  we  think  of,  and  it  gives  us,  from  morning  to 
night,  enough  to  think  about,  without  embarrassing  our  heads  concerning  others. 
I think  for  others  ? No,  no.” 

The  spy,  who  was  there  to  pick  up  any  crumbs  he  could  find  or  make,  did  not 
lllow  his  baffled  state  to  express  itself  in  his  sinister  face ; but,  stood  with  an  ail 


Good  day,  Jacques!  log 

of  gossiping  gallantly,  leaning  his  elbow  on  Madame  Defarge’s  little  counter,  and 
occasionally  sipping  his  cognac. 

“A  bad  business  this,  madame,  of  Gaspard’s  execution.  Ah!  the  pool 
Gaspard  ! ” With  a sigh  of  great  compassion. 

“My  faith  ! ” returned  madame,  coolly  and  lightly,  “if  people  use  knives  for 
such  purposes,  they  have  to  pay  for  it.  He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of 
his  luxury  was  ; he  has  paid  the  price.” 

“I  believe,”  said  the  spy,  dropping  his  soft  voice  to  a tone  that  invited  confi- 
dence, and  expressing  an  injured  revolutionary  susceptibility  in  every  muscle  of 
his  wicked  face  : “I  believe  there  is  much  compassion  and  anger  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood, touching  the  poor  fellow  ? Between  ourselves.” 

“ Is  there  ? ” asked  madame,  vacantly. 

“ Is  there  not  ? ” 

“ — Here  is  my  husband  ! ” said  Madame  Defarge. 

As  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  entered  at  the  door,  the  spy  saluted  him  by 
touching  his  hat,  and  saying,  with  an  engaging  smile,  “ Good  day,  Jacques!” 
Defarge  stopped  short,  and  stared  at  him. 

“ Good  day,  Jacques  ! ” the  spy  repeated;  with  not  quite  so  much  confidence, 
or  quite  so  easy  a smile  under  the  stare. 

“You  deceive  yourself,  monsieur,”  returned  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop. 
“ You  mistake  me  for  another.  That  is  not  my  name.  I am  Ernest  Defarge.” 

“It  is  all  the  same,”  said  the  spy,  airily,  but  discomfited  too  : “ good  day!  ” 

“ Good  day  ! ” answered  Defarge,  drily. 

“ I was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I had  the  pleasure  of  chatting  when  you 
entered,  that  they  tell  me  there  is — and  no  wonder ! — much  sympathy  and  anger 
in  Saint  Antoine,  touching  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor  Gaspard.” 

“ No  one  has  told  me  so,”  said  Defarge,  shaking  his  head.  “ I know  nothing 

of  it.” 

Having  said  it,  he  passed  behind  the  little  counter,  and  stood  with  his  hand  on 
the  back  of  his  wife’s  chair,  looking  over  that  barrier  at  the  person  to  whom  they 
were  both  opposed,  and  whom  either  of  them  would  have  shot  with  the  greatest 
satisfaction. 

The  spy,  well  used  to  his  business,  did  not  change  his  unconscious  attitude,  but 
drained  his  little  glass  of  cognac,  took  a sip  of  fresh  water,  and  asked  for  another 
glass  of  cognac.  Madame  Defarge  poured  it  out  for  him,  took  to  her  knitting 
again,  and  hummed  a little  song  over  it. 

“You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well ; that  is  to  say,  better  than  I do  ?”  ob- 
served Defarge. 

“ Not  at  all,  but  I hope  to  know  it  better.  I am  so  profoundly  interested  in  its 
miserable  inhabitants.” 

“ Hah  ! ” muttered  Defarge. 

“ The  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  Defarge,  recalls  to  me,”  pur- 
sued the  spy,  “ that  I have  the  honour  of  cherishing  some  interesting  associations 
with  your  name.” 

“ Indeed  !”  said  Defarge,  with  much  indifference. 

“Yes,  indeed.  When  Dr.  Manette  was  released,  you,  his  old  domestic,  had 
the  charge  of  him,  I know.  He  was  delivered  to  you.  You  see  I am  informed 
of  the  circumstances  ? ” 

“ Such  is  the  fact,  certainly,”  said  Defarge.  He  had  had  it  conveyed  to  him,  in 
an  accidental  touch  of  his  wife’s  elbow  as  she  knitted  and  warbled,  that  he  would 
do  best  to  answer,  but  always  with  brevity. 

“ It  was  to  you,’*  said  the  spy,  “ that  his  daughter  came  ; and  it  was  from  you» 
care  that  his  daughter  took  him,  accompanied  by  a neat  brown  monsieur ; how  if 


:o6  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


he  called  ? — in  a little  wig — Lorry — of  the  bank  of  Tellson  and  Company — ovei  to 
England.” 

44  Such  is  the  fact,”  repeated  Defarge. 

44  Yerv  interesting  remembrances  ! ” said  the  spy.  4‘  I have  known  Dr.  Manettc 
and  his  daughter,  in  England.” 

“Yes  ? ” said  Defarge. 

44  You  don’t  hear  much  about  them  now  ?”  said  the  spy. 

44  No,”  said  Defarge. 

“In  effect,”  madame  struck  in,  looking  up  from  her  work  and  her  little  song, 
44  we  nev/r  hear  about  them.  We  received  the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and 
perhaps  another  letter,  or  perhaps  two  ; but,  since  then,  they  have  gradually  taken 
their  road  in  life — we,  ours— and  we  have  held  no  correspondence.” 

44  Perfectly  so,  madame,”  replied  the  spy.  44  She  is  going  to  be  married.” 

44  Going?  ” echoed  madame.  44  She  was  pretty  enough  to  have  been  married 
long  ago.  You  English  are  cold,  it  seems  to  me.” 

44  Oh  ! You  know  I am  English.” 

“I  perceive  your  tongue  is,”  returned  madame;  “and  what  the  tongue  is,  I 
suppose  the  man  is.” 

He  did  not  take  the  identification  as  a compliment ; but  he  made  the  best  of  it, 
and  turned  it  off  with  a laugh.  After  sipping  his  cognac  to  the  end,  he  added  : 

44  Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But  not  to  an  Englishman  ; to 
one  who,  like  herself,  is  French  by  birth.  And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor 
Gaspard ! It  was  cruel,  cruel!),  it  is  a curious  thing  that  she  is  going  to  marry 
the  nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for  whom  Gaspard  was  exalted  to  that 
height  of  so  many  feet ; in  other  words,  the  present  Marquis.  But  he  lives  un- 
known in  England,  he  is  no  Marquis  there ; he  is  Mr.  Charles  Damay.  D’Aulnais 
is  the  name  of  his  mother’s  family.” 

Madame  Defarge  knitted  steadily,  but  the  intelligence  had  a palpable  effect 
upon  her  husband.  Do  what  he  would,  behind  the  little  counter,  as  to  the  striking 
of  a light  and  the  lighting  of  his  pipe,  he  was  troubled,  and  his  hand  was  not 
trustworthy.  The  spy  would  have  been  no  spy  if  he  had  failed  to  see  it,  or  to 
record  it  in  his  mind. 

Having  made,  at  least,  this  one  hit,  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be  worth,  and 
no  customers  coming  in  to  help  him  to  any  other,  Mr.  Barsad  paid  for  what  he 
had  drunk,  and  took  his  leave  : taking  occasion  to  say,  in  a genteel  manner,  be- 
fore he  departed,  that  he  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Defarge  again.  For  some  minutes  after  he  had  emerged  into  the  outer 
presence  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  husband  and  wife  remained  exactly  as  he  had  left 
them,  lest  he  should  come  back. 

44  Can  it  be  true,”  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice,  looking  down  at  his  wife  as  he 
stood  smoking  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair  • 44  what  he  has  said  of 
Ma’amselle  Manette  ? ” 

44  Ashe  has  said  it,”  returned  madame,  lifting  her  eyebrows  a little,  44  it  is  pro- 
bably false.  But  it  may  be  true.” 

44  If  it  is ” Defarge  began,  and  stopped. 

44  If  it  is  ? ” repeated  his  wife. 

44  — And  if  it  does  come,  while  we  live  to  see  it  triumph — I hope,  for  her  sake, 
Destiny  will  keep  her  husband  out  of  France.” 

44  Her  husband’s  destiny,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  her  usual  composure, 
44  will  take  him  where  he  is  to  go,  and  will  lead  him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him. 
That  is  all  I know.” 

44  But  it  is  very  strange — now,  at  least,  is  it  not  very  strange  ” — said  Defarge, 
rather  pleading  with  his  wife  to  induce  her  to  admit  it,  44  that,  after  all  our  sym* 


Knitting  a great  Net . 


1C7 


pathy  for  Monsieur  her  father,  and  herself,  her  husband’s  name  should  be  pro- 
scribed under  your  hand  at  this  moment,  by  the  side  of  that  infernal  dog’s  who 
has  just  left  us  ? ” 

“ Stranger  things  than  that  will  happen  when  it  does  come,”  answered  madame. 

“ I have  them  both  here,  of  a certainty ; and  they  are  both  here  for  their  merits  ; 
diat  is  enough.” 

She  rolled  up  her  knitting  when  she  had  said  those  words,  and  presently  took 
the  rose  out  of  the  handkerchief  that  was  wound  about  her  head.  Either  Saint 
Antoine  had  an  instinctive  sense  that  the  objectionable  decoration  was  gone,  or 
Saint  Antoine  was  on  the  watch  for  its  disappearance  ; howbeit,  the  Saint  took 
courage  to  lounge  in,  very  shortly  afterwards,  and  the  wine-shop  recovered  its. 
habitual  aspect. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others  Saint  Antoine  turned  himself  inside 
out,  and  sat  on  door-steps  and  window-ledges,  and  came  to  the  co  ners  of  vile 
streets  and  courts,  for  a breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge  with  her  work  in  her  hand 
was  accustomed  to  pass  from  place  to  place  and  from  group  to  group  : a Missionary 
— there  were  many  like  her — such  as  the  world  will  do  well  never  to  breed  again. 
All  the  women  knitted.  They  knitted  worthless  things ; but,  the  mechanical 
work  was  a mechanical  substitute  for  eating  and  drinking ; the  hands  moved  for 
the  jaws  and  the  digestive  apparatus : if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still,  the 
stomachs  would  have  been  more  famine-pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and  the  thoughts.  And  as  Madame 
Defarge  moved  on  from  group  to  group,  all  three  went  quicker  and  fiercer  among 
every  little  knot  of  women  that  she  had  spoken  with,  and  left  behind. 

Her  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking  after  her  with  admiration.  “ A great 
woman,”  said  he,  “ a strong  woman,  a grand  woman,  a frightfully  grand  woman  ! ” 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the  ringing  of  church  bells  and  the  dis- 
tant beating  of  the  military  drums  in  the  Palace  Court-Yard,  as  the  women  sat  knit- 
ting knitting.  Darkness  encompassed  them.  Another  darkness  was  closing  in  as 
surely,  when  the  church  bells,  then  ringing  pleasantly  in  many  an  airy  steeple  over 
France,  should  be  melted  into  thundering  cannon  ; when  the  military  drums 
should  be  beating  to  drown  a wretched  voice,  that  night  all  potent  as  the  voice  of 
Power  and  Plenty,  Freedom  and  Life.  So  much  was  closing  in  about  the  women 
who  sat  knitting,  knitting,  that  they  their  very  selves  were  closing  in  around  a 
structure  yet  unbuilt,  where  they  were  to  sit  knitting,  knitting,  counting  dropping 
heads. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ONE  NIGHT. 

"Mever  did  the  sun  go  down  with  a brighter  glory  on  the  quiet  comer  in  Soho, 
than  one  memorable  evening  when  the  Doctor  and  his  daughter  sat  under  the 
plane-tree  together.  Never  did  the  moon  rise  with  a milder  radiance  over  great 
London,  than  on  that  night  when  it  found  them  still  seated  under  the  tree,  and 
shone  upon  their  faces  through  its  leaves. 

Lucie  was  to  be  married  to-morrow.  She  had  reserved  this  last  evening  for  her 
lather,  and  they  sat  alone  under  the  plane-tr^e. 

“You  are  happy,  my  dear  father  ?” 

“ Quite,  my  child.” 

They  had  said  little,  though  they  had  been  there  a long  time.  When  it  was  yel 
lifcht  euough  to  work  and  read,  she  had  neither  engaged  herseV  in  her  usual  w uk, 


io8 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


nor  had  she  read  to  him.  She  had  employed  herself  in  both  ways,  at  his  side 
under  the  tree,  many  and  many  a time;  but,  this  time  was  not  quite  like  any 
other,  and  nothing  could  make  it  so. 

“ And  I am  very  happy  to-night,  dear  father.  I am  deeply  happy  in  the  love 
that  Heaven  has  so  blessed — my  love  for  Charles,  and  Charles’s  love  for  me. 
But,  if  my  life  were  not  to  be  still  consecrated  to  you,  or  if  my  marriage  were  so 
arranged  as  that  it  would  part  us,  even  by  the  length  of  a few  of  these  streets,  I 
should  be  more  unhappy  and  self-reproachful  now  than  I can  tell  you.  Even  as  it 
is— — ” 

Even  as  it  was,  she  could  not  command  her  voice. 

In  the  sad  moonlight,  she  clasped  him  by  the  neck,  and  laid  her  face  upon  his 
breast.  In  the  moonlight  which  is  always  sad,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  itself  is — as 
the  light  called  human  life  is — at  its  coming  and  its  going. 

u Dearest  dear ! Can  you  tell  me,  this  last  time,  that  you  feel  quite,  quite  sure,  no 
new  affections  of  mine,  and  no  new  duties  of  mine,  will  ever  interpose  between  us  ? 
/ know  it  well,  but  do  you  know  it  ? In  your  own  heart,  do  you  feel  quite 
certain  ?” 

Her  father  answered,  with  a cheerful  firmness  of  conviction  he  could  scarcely 
have  assumed,  “ Quite  sure,  my  darling  ! More  than  that,”  he  added,  as  he 
tenderly  kissed  her  : “ my  future  is  far  brighter,  Lucie,  seen  through  your  marriage, 
than  it  could  have  been — nay,  than  it  ever  was — without  it.” 

“ If  I could  hope  that , my  father  ! ” 

“ Believe  it,  love  ! Indeed  it  is  so.  Consider  how  natural  and  how  plain  it  is, 
my  dear,  that  it  should  be  so.  You,  devoted  and  young,  cannot  fully  appreciate 
the  anxiety  I have  felt  that  your  life  should  not  be  wasted ” 

She  moved  her  hand  towards  his  lips,  but  he  took  it  in  his,  and  repeated  the 
word. 

“ — wasted,  my  child — should  not  be  wasted,  struck  aside  from  the  natural  order 
of  things — for  my  sake.  Your  unselfishness  cannot  entirely  comprehend  how  much 
my  mind  has  gone  on  this ; but,  only  ask  yourself,  how  could  my  happiness  be 
perfect,  while  yours  was  incomplete  ?” 

“ If  I had  never  seen  Charles,  my  father,  I should  have  been  quite  happy  with 
you.” 

He  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  that  she  would  have  been  unhappy 
without  Charles,  having  seen  him  ; and  replied : 

“My  child,  you  did  see  him,  and  it  is  Charles.  If  it  had  not  been  Charles,  it 
would  have  been  another.  Or,  if  it  had  been  no  other,  I should  have  been  the 
cause,  and  then  the  dark  part  of  my  life  would  have  cast  its  shadow  beyond  myself, 
and  would  have  fallen  on  you.” 

ItNvas  the  first  time,  except  at  the  trial,  of  her  ever  hearing  him  refer  to  the 
period  of  his  suffering.  It  gave  her  a strange  and  new  sensation  while  his  words 
were  in  her  ears  ; and  she  remembered  it  long  afterwards. 

“ See  1”  said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  raising  his  hand  towards  the  moon.  “ I 
have  looked  at  her  from  my  prison-window,  when  I could  not  bear  her  light.  I 
have  looked  at  her  when  it  has  been  such  torture  to  me  to  think  of  her  shining 
upon  what  I had  lost,  that  I have  beaten  my  head  against  my  prison-walls.  I have 
looked  at  her,  in  a state  so  dull  and  lethargic,  that  I have  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  number  of  horizontal  lines  I could  draw  across  her  at  the  full,  and  the  number 
of  perpendicular  lines  with  which  I could  intersect  them.”  He  added  in  his 
inward  and  pondering  manner,  as  he  looked  at  the  moon,  u It  was  twenty  either 
way,  I remember,  and  the  twentieth  was  difficult  to  squeeze  in.” 

The  strange  thrill  with  which  she  heard  him  go  back  to  that  time,  deepened  as 
he  dwelt  upon  it ; but,  there  was  nothing  to  shock  her  in  the  manner  oi  his  refe- 


Da / k Prison- shadow s . 


I09 

fence.  He  only  seemed  to  contrast  his  present  cheerfulness  and  felicity  with  the 
dire  endurance  that  was  over. 

“ I have  looked  at  her,  speculating  thousands  of  times  upon  the  unborn  child 
from  whom  I had  been  rent.  Whether  it  was  alive.  Whether  it  had  been  born 
alive,  or  the  poor  mother’s  shock  had  killed  it.  Whether  it  was  a son  who  would 
some  day  avenge  his  father.  (There  was  a time  in  my  imprisonment,  when  rny 
desire  for  vengeance  was  unbearable.)  Whether  it  was  a son  who  would  never 
know  his  father’s  story  ; who  might  even  live  to  weigh  the  possibility  of  his 
father’s  having  disappeared  of  his  own  will  and  act.  Whether  it  was  a daughter 
who  would  grow  to  be  a woman.” 

She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek  and  his  hand. 

“ I have  pictured  my  daughter,  to  myself,  as  perfectly  forgetful  of  me — rather, 
altogether  ignorant  of  me,  and  unconscious  of  me.  I have  cast  up  the  years  of  her 
age,  year  after  year.  I have  seen  her  married  to  a man  who  knew  nothing  of  my 
fate.  I have  altogether  perished  from  the  remembrance  of  the  living,  and  in  the 
next  generation  my  place  was  a blank.” 

“ My  father ! Even  to  hear  that  you  had  such  thoughts  of  a daughter  who 
never  existed,  strikes  to  my  heart  as  if  I had  been  that  child.” 

“You,  Lucie  ? It  is  out  of  the  consolation  and  restoration  you  have  brought  to 
me.  that  these  remembrances  arise,  and  pass  between  us  and  the  moon  on  this  last 
night.— What  did  I say  just  now  ?” 

“ She  knew  nothing  of  you.  She  cared  nothing  for  you.” 

“ So  ! But  on  other  moonlight  nights,  when  the  sadness  and  the  silence  have 
touched  me  in  a different  way — have  affected  me  with  something  as  like  a sorrow- 
ful sense  of  peace,  as  any  emotion  that  had  pain  for  its  foundations  could — I have 
imagined  her  as  coming  to  me  in  my  cell,  and  leading  me  out  into  the  freedom 
beyond  the  fortress.  I have  seen  her  image  in  the  moonlight  often,  as  I now  see 
you  ; except  that  I never  held  her  in  my  arms  ; it  stood  between  the  little  grated 
window  and  the  door.  But,  you  understand  that  that  was  not  the  child  I am 
speaking  of?” 

“ The  figure  was  not ; the — the — image  ; the  fancy  ?” 

“ No.  That  was  another  thing.  It  stood  before  my  disturbed  sense  of  sight, 
but  it  never  moved.  The  phantom  that  my  mind  pursued,  was  another  and  more 
real  child.  Of  her  outward  appearance  I know  no  more  than  that  she  was  like  her 
mother.  The  other  had  that  likeness  too — as  you  have — but  was  not  the  same. 
Can  you  follow  me,  Lucie  ? Hardly,  I think  ? I doubt  you  must  have  been  a 
solitary  prisoner  to  understand  these  perplexed  distinctions.” 

His  collected  and  calm  manner  could  not  prevent  her  blood  from  running  cold, 
as  he  thus  tried  to  anatomise  his  old  condition. 

“In  that  more  peaceful  state,  I have  imagined  her,  in  the  moonlight,  coming  to 
me  and  taking  me  out  to  show  me  that  the  home  of  her  married  life  was  full  of 
her  loving  remembrance  of  her  lost  father.  My  picture  was  in  her  room,  and  I 
was  in  her  prayers.  Her  life  was  active,  cheerful,  useful ; but  my  poor  history  per- 
vaded it  all.” 

“ I was  that  child,  my  father.  I was  not  half  so  good,  but  in  my  love  that  was  I.** 
“ And  she  showed  me  her  children,”  said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  “ and  they 
had  heard  of  me,  and  had  been  taught  to  pity  me.  When  they  passed  a prison  of 
the  State,  they  kept  far  from  its  frowning  walls,  and  looked  up  at  its  bars,  and 
spoke  in  whispers.  She  could  never  deliver  me ; I imagined  that  she  always 
brought  me  back  after  showing  me  such  things.  But  then,  blessed  with  the  relief 
of  tears,  I fell  upon  my  knees,  and  blessed  her.” 

“Iam  that  child,  I hDpe,  my  father.  O my  dear,  my  dear,  will  you  bless  me  a* 
feivently  to-morrow  ?” 


no 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities 


Lucie,  1 recall  these  old  troubles  in  the  reason  that  I have  to-night  for  loving 
you  better  than  words  can  tell,  and  thanking  God  for  my  great  happiness.  My 
thoughts,  when  they  were  wildest,  never  rose  near  the  happiness  that  I have  known 
With  you,  and  that  we  have  before  us.” 

He  embraced  her,  solemnly  commended  her  to  Heaven,  and  humbly  thankeu 
Heaven  lor  having  bestowed  her  on  him.  Bv-and-bv,  they  went  into  the  hou»e. 

There  was  no  one  bidden  to  the  marriage  but  Mr.  Lorry  ; there  was  even  to  be 
no  bridesmaid  but  the  gaunt  Miss  Pross.  The  marriage  was  to  make  no  change 
in  their  place  of  residence  ; they  had  b^en  able  to  extend  it,  by  taking  to  them- 
selves the  upper  rooms  formerly  belonging  to  the  apocryphal  invisible  lodger,  and 
they  desired  nothing  more. 

Doctor  Manette  was  very  cheerful  at  the  little  supper.  They  were  only  three  at 
table,  and  Miss  Pross  made  the  third.  He  regretted  that  Charles  was  not  there ; 
was  more  than  half  disposed  to  object  to  the  loving  little  plot  that  kept  him  away; 
and  drank  to  him  affectionately. 

So,  the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  Lucie  good  night,  and  they  separated.  But, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  third  hour  of  the  morning,  Lucie  came  down  stairs  again, 
and  stole  into  his  room  ; not  free  from  unshaped  fears,  beforehand. 

All  things,  however,  were  in  their  places  ; all  was  quiet ; and  he  lay  asleep,  his 
white  hair  picturesque  on  the  untroubled  pillow,  and  his  hands  lying  quiet  on  the 
coverlet.  She  put  her  needless  candle  in  the  shadow  at  a distance,  crept  up  to 
his  bed,  and  put  her  lips  to  his ; then,  leaned  over  him,  and  looked  at  him. 

Into  his  handsome  face,  the  bitter  waters  of  captivity  had  worn  ; but,  he  covered 
up  their  tracks  with  a determination  so  strong,  that  he  held  the  mastery  of  them 
even  in  his  sleep.  A more  remarkable  face  in  its  quiet,  resolute,  and  guarded 
struggle  with  an  unseen  assailant,  was  not  to  be  beheld  in  all  the  wide  dominions 
of  sleep,  that  night. 

She  timidly  laid  her  hand  on  his  dear  breast,  and  put  up  a prayer  that  she  might 
ever  be  as  true  to  him  as  her  love  aspired  to  be,  and  as  his  sorrows  deserved. 
Then,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  kissed  his  lips  once  more,  and  went  away.  So, 
the  sunrise  came,  and  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  of  the  plane-tree  moved  upon  his 
face,  as  softly  as  her  lips  had  moved  in  praying  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

NINE  DAYS. 

The  marriage-day  was  shining  brightly,  and  they  were  ready  outside  the  closed 
door  of  the  Doctor’s  room,  where  he  was  speaking  with  Charles  Darnay.  They 
were  ready  to  go  to  church ; the  beautiful  bride,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross — to 
whom  the  event,  through  a gradual  process  of  reconcilement  to  the  inevitable, 
would  have  been  one  of  absolute  bliss,  but  for  the  yet  lingering  consideration  that 
her  brother  Solomon  should  have  been  the  bridegroom. 

“ And  so,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  could  not  sufficiently  admire  the  bride,  and 
who  had  been  moving  round  her  to  take  in  every  point  ot  her  quiet,  pretty  dress  ; 
“ and  so  it  was  for  this,  my  sweet  Lucie,  that  I brought  you  across  the  Channel, 
such  a baby  ! Lord  bless  me  ! How  little  I thought  what  I was  doing ! How 
lightly  I valued  the  obligation  I was  conferring  on  my  friend  Mr.  Charles ! ” 

'‘You  didn’t  mean  it,”  remarked  the  matter-of-fact  Miss  Pross,  “and  therefore 
how  could  you  know  it  ? Nonsense  ! ” 

“ Really  ? Well ; but  don’t  cry,”  said  the  gentle  Mr.  Lorry. 


Lucie  s Marriage . 


Ill 


“ I am  not  crying,”  said  Miss  Pross  ; “ you  are.” 

“ I,  my  Pross  ? ” (By  this  time,  Mr.  Lorry  dared  to  be  pleasant  with  her,  on 
occasion.) 

“ You  were,  just  now  ; I saw  you  do  it,  and  I don’t  wonder  at  it.  Such  a pie- 
sent  of  plate  as  you  have  made  ’em,  is  enough  to  bring  tears  into  anybody's  eyes. 
There’s  not  a fork  or  a spoon  in  the  collection,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ that  I didn’t  cry 
over,  last  night  aftei  the  box  came,  till  I couldn’t  see  it.” 

“I  am  highly  gratified,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ though,  upon  my  honour,  I had  nc 
intention  of  rendering  those  trifling  articles  of  remembrance  invisible  to  any  one. 
Dear  me ! This  is  an  occasion  that  makes  a man  speculate  on  all  he  has  lost. 
Dear,  dear,  dear  ! To  think  that  there  might  have  been  a Mrs.  Lorry,  any  time 
these  fifty  years  almost ! ” 

“Not  at  all ! ” From  Miss  Pross. 

“ You  think  there  never  might  have  been  a Mrs.  Lorry  ? ” asked  the  gentleman 
of  that  name. 

“ Pooh  ! ” rejoined  Miss  Pross  ; “ you  were  a bachelor  in  your  cradle.” 

“ Well ! ” observed  Mr.  Lorry,  beamingly  adjusting  his  little  wig,  “ that  seems 
probable,  too.” 

“ And  you  were  cut  out  for  a bachelor,”  pursued  Miss  Pross,  “ before  you  were 
put  in  your  cradle.” 

“Then,  I think,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ that  I was  very  unhandsomely  dealt  with, 
and  that  I ought  to  have  had  a voice  in  the  ‘■election  of  my  pattern.  Enough! 
Now,  my  dear  Lucie,”  drawing  his  arm  soothingly  round  her  waist,  “ I hear 
them  moving  in  the  next  room,  and  Miss  Pross  and  I,  as  two  formal  folks  of  busi- 
ness, are  anxious  not  to  lose  the  final  opportunity  of  saying  something  to  you  that 
you  wish  to  hear.  You  leave  your  good  father,  my  dear,  in  hands  as  earnest  and 
as  loving  as  your  own  ; he  shall  be  taken  every  conceivable  care  of ; during  the 
next  fortnight,  while  you  are  in  Warwickshire  and  thereabouts,  even  Tellson’s 
shall  go  to  the  wall  (comparatively  speaking)  before  him.  And  when,  at  the  fort- 
night’s end,  he  corner  to  join  you  and  your  beloved  husband,  on  your  other  fort- 
night’s trip  in  Wales,  you  shall  say  that  we  have  sent  him  to  you  in  the  best 
health  and  in  the  happiest  frame.  Now,  I hear  Somebody’s  step  coming  to  the 
door.  Let  me  kiss  my  dear  girl  with  an  old-fashioned  bachelor  blessing,  before 
Somebody  comes  to  claim  his  own.” 

For  a moment,  he  held  the  fair  face  from  him  to  look  at  the  well-remem- 
bered expression  on  the  forehead,  and  then  laid  the  bright  golden  hair  against  his 
little  brown  wig,  with  a genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy  which,  if  such  things  be 
old-fashioned,  were  as  old  as  Adam. 

The  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room  opened,  and  he  came  out  with  Charles  Darnay. 
He  was  so  deadly  pale — which  had  not  been  the  case  when  they  went  in  together 
• — that  no  vestige  of  colour  was  to  be  seen  in  his  face.  But,  in  the  composure  of 
his  manner  he  was  unaltered,  except  that  to  the  shrewd  glance  of  Mr.  Lorry  it 
disclosed  some  shadowy  indication  that  the  old  air  of  avoidance  and  dread  had 
la  ely  passed  over  him,  like  a cold  wind. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  took  her  down-stairs  to  the  chariot  which 
Mr.  Lorry  had  hired  in  honour  of  the  day.  The  rest  followed  in  another  carriage, 
and  soon,  in  a neighbouring  church,  where  no  strange  eyes  looked  on,  Charles 
Darnay  and  Lucie  Manette  were  happily  married. 

Besides  the  glancing  tears  that  shone  among  the  smiles  of  the  little  group  when 
it  Was  done,  some  diamonds,  very  bright  and  sparkling,  glanced  on  the  bride’s 
hand,  which  were  newly  released  from  the  dark  obscurity  of  one  of  Mr.  Lorry’s 
pockets.  They  returned  home  to  breakfast,  and  all  went  well,  and  in  due  course 
the  golden  hair  that  had  wfing1^  with  the  poor  shoemaker’s  white  locks  in  the 


1 IX 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Paris  garret,  were  mingled  with  them  again  in  the  morning  sunlight,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door  at  parting. 

It  was  a hard  parting,  though  it  was  not  for  long.  But  her  father  cheered  her, 
and  said  at  last,  gently  disengaging  himself  from  her  enfolding  arms,  “ Take  her, 
Charles  ! She  is  yours  ! ” 

And  her  agitated  hand  waved  to  them  from  a chaise  window,  and  she  was  gone. 

The  comer  being  out  of  the  way  of  the  idle  and  curious,  and  the  preparations 
having  been  very  simple  and  few,  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross,  were  left 
quite  alone.  It  was  when  they  turned  into  the  welcome  shade  of  the  cool  old 
hall,  that  Mr.  Lorry  observed  a great  change  to  have  come  over  the  Doctor ; as 
if  the  golden  arm  uplifted  there,  had  struck  him  a poisoned  blow.  i 

He  had  naturally  repressed  much,  and  some  revulsion  might  have  been  expected 
in  him  when  the  occasion  for  repression  was  gone.  But,  it  was  the  old  scared 
lost  look  that  troubled  Mr.  Lorry ; and  through  his  absent  manner  of  clasping  his 
head  and  drearily  wandering  away  into  his  own  room  when  they  got  up-stairs, 
Mr.  Lorry  was  reminded  of  Defarge  the  wine-shop  keeper,  and  the  starlight 
ride. 

“I  think,”  he  whispered  to  Miss  Pross,  after  anxious  consideration,  “I  think 
we  had  best  not  speak  to  him  just  now,  or  at  all  disturb  him.  I must  look  in  at 
Tellson’s  ; so  I will  go  there  at  once  and  come  back  presently.  Then,  we  will 
take  him  a ride  into  the  country,  and  dine  there,  and  all  will  be  well.” 

It  was  easier  for  Mr.  Lorry  to  look  in  at  Tellson’s,  than  to  look  out  of  Tellson’s. 
He  was  detained  two  hours.  When  he  came  back,  he  ascended  the  old  staircase 
alone,  having  asked  no  question  of  the  servant ; going  thus  into  the  Doctor’s 
rooms,  he  was  stopped  by  a low  sound  of  knocking. 

“ Good  God  ! ” he  said,  with  a start.  “ What’s  that  ? ” 

Miss  Pross,  with  a terrified  face,  was  at  his  ear.  “ O me,  O me  ! All  is  lost !” 
cried  she,  wringing  her  hands.  “What  is  to  be  told  to  Ladybird  ? He  doesn’t 
know  me,  and  is  making  shoes  ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  said  what  he  could  to  calm  her,  and  went  himself  into  the  Doctor’s 
room.  The  bench  was  turned  towards  the  light,  as  it  had  been  when  he  had  seen 
the  shoemaker  at  his  work  before,  and  his  head  was  bent  down,  and  he  was  very 
busy. 

“ Doctor  Manette.  My  dear  friend,  Doctor  Manette  !” 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a moment — half  inquiringly,  half  as  if  he  were 
angry  at  being  spoken  to — and  bent  over  his  work  again. 

He  had  laid  aside  his  coat  and  waistcoat ; his  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  as  it 
used  to  be  when  he  did  that  work ; and  even  the  old  haggard,  faded  surface  of 
face  had  come  back  to  him.  He  worked  hard — impatiently — as  if  in  some  sense 
of  having  been  interrupted. 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  work  in  his  hand,  and  observed  that  it  was  a shoe  of 
the  old  size  and  shape.  He  took  up  another  that  was  lying  by  him,  and  asked 
what  it  was  ? 

“ A young  lady’s  walking  shoe,”  he  muttered,  without  looking  up.  “ It  ought 
to  have  been  finished  long  ago.  Let  it  be.” 

“ But,  Doctor  Manette.  Look  at  me  ! ” 

He  obeyed,  in  the  old  mechanically  submissive  manner,  without  pausing  in  his 
work. 

“ You  know  me,  my  dear  friend  ? Think  again.  This  is  not  your  proper  occu- 
pation. Think,  dear  friend  ! ” 

Nothing  would  induce  him  to  speak  more.  He  looked  up,  for  an  instant  at  a 
time,  when  he  was  requested  to  do  so  ; but,  no  persuasion  would  extract  a word 
from  him.  He  worked,  and  worked,  and  worked,  in  silence,  and  words  fell  09 


The  Terrible  Shoemaker . 


Ill 

him  as  they  would  have  fallen  on  an  echoless  wall,  or  on  the  air.  The  only  ray  of 
hope  that  Mr,  Lorry  could  discover,  was,  that  he  sometimes  furtively  looked  up 
without  being  asked.  In  that,  there  seemed  a faint  expression  of  curiosity  or  per- 
plexity— as  though  he  were  trying  to  reconcile  some  doubts  in  his  mind. 

Two  things  at  once  impressed  themselves  on  Mr.  Lorry,  as  important  above  all 
others;  the  first,  that  this  must  be  kept  secret  from  Lucie;  the  second  that  it 
must  be  kept  secret  from  all  who  knew  him.  In  conjunction  with  Miss  Pross,  he 
took  immediate  steps  towards  the  latter  precaution,  by  giving  out  that  the  Doctor 
was  not  well,  and  required  a few  days  of  complete  rest.  In  aid  of  the  kind 
deception  to  be  practised  on  his  daughter,  Miss  Pross  was  to  write,  describing  his 
having  been  called  away  professionally,  and  referring  to  an  imaginary  letter  of 
two  or  three  hurried  lines  in  liis  own  hand,  represented  to  have  been  addressed  to 
her  by  the  same  post. 

These  measures,  advisable  to  be  taken  in  any  case,  Mr.  Lorry  took  in  the  hope 
of  his  coming  to  himself.  If  that  should  happen  soon,  he  kept  another  course  in 
reserve  ; which  was,  to  have  a certain  opinion  that  he  thought  the  best,  on  the 
Doctor’s  case. 

In  the  hope  of  hfs  recovery,  and  of  resort  to  this  third  course  being  thereby 
rendered  practicable,  Mr.  Lorry  resolved  to  watch  him  attentively,  with  as  little 
appearance  as  possible  of  doing  so.  He  therefore  made  arrangements  to  absent 
himself  from  Tebson’s  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  took  his  post  by  the  window 
in  the  same  ro^m. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  speak  to  him, 
since,  on  being  pressed,  he  became  worried.  He  abandoned  that  attempt  on  the 
first  day,  and.  resolved  merely  to  keep  himself  always  before  him,  as  a silent  pro- 
test agabist  the  delusion  into  which  he  had  fallen,  or  was  falling.  He  remained, 

' Kerefore,  in  his  seat  near  the  window,  reading  and  writing,  and  expressing  in  as 
.iany  peasant  and  natural  ways  as  he  could  think  of,  that  it  was  a free  place. 

D jC*.oy  Manette  took  what  was  given  him  to  eat  and  drink,  and  worked  on, 
hat  first  day,  until  it  was  too  dark  to  see — worked  on,  half  an  hour  after  Mr. 
U>rry  could  not  have  seen,  for  his  life,  to  read  or  write.  When  he  put  his  tools 
iside  as  useless,  until  morning,  Mr.  Lorry  rose  and  said  to  him : 

“ Will  you  go  out  ? ” 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him  in  the  old  manner,  looked  up 
n the  old  manner,  and  repeated  in  the  old  low  voice  : 

u Out  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not  ? ” 

He  made  no  effort  to  say  why  not,  and  said  not  a word  more.  But,  Mr.  Lorry 
thought  he  saw,  as  he  leaned  forward  on  his  bench  in  the  dusk,  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  he  was  in  some  misty  way  asking  him- 
self, “ Why  not  ? ” The  sagacity  of  the  man  of  business  perceived  an  advantage 
here,  and  determined  to  hold  it. 

Miss  Pross  and  he  divided  the  night  into  two  watches,  and  observed  him  at  in- 
tervals from  the  adjoining  room.  He  paced  up  and  down  for  a long  time  before 
he  lay  down  ; but,  when  he  did  finally  lay  himself  down,  he  fell  asleep.  In  the< 
morning,  he  was  up  betimes,  and  went  straight  to  his  bench  and  to  work. 

On  this  second  day,  Mr.  Lorry  saluted  him  cheerfully  by  his  name,  and  spoke 
to  him  on  topics  that  had  been  of  late  familiar  to  them.  He  returned  no  reply, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  heard  what  was  said,  and  that  he  thought  about  it,  how- 
ever confusedly.  This  encouraged  Mr.  Lorry  to  have  Miss  Pross  in  with  hei 
work,  several  times  during  the  day ; at  those  times,  they  quietly  spoke  of  Lucie, 
and  of  her  father  then  present,  precisely  in  the  usual  manner,  and  as  if  there  were 
nothing  amiss.  This  was  done  without  any  demonstrative  accompanimert,  not 


<14  ^ Tale  of  1 wo  Cities 

long  enough,  or  often  enough  to  harass  him  ; and  it  lightened  Mr.  I>ny’s  friendly 
heart  to  believe  that  he  looked  up  oftener,  and  that  he  appeared  ta  be  stirred  by 
some  perception  of  inconsistencies  surrounding  him. 

When  it  fell  dark  again,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  as  before  : 
u Dear  Doctor,  will  you  go  out  ? ” 

As  before,  he  repeated,  “ Out  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not  ? ” 

This  time,  Mr.  Lorry  feigned  to  go  out  when  he  could  extract  no  answer  from 
him,  and,  after  remaining  absent  for  an  hour,  returned.  In  the  meanwhile,  the 
Doctor  had  removed  to  the  seat  in  the  window,  and  had  sat  the,  e looking  down 
at  the  plane-tree  ; but,  on  Mr.  Lorry’s  return,  he  slipped  away  to  his  bench 
The  time  went  very  slowly  on,  and  Mr.  Lorry’s  hope  darkened,  and  his  heart 
grew  heavier  again,  and  grew  yet  heavier  and  heavier  every  day.  The  third  day 
came  and  went,  the  fourth,  the  fifth.  Five  days,  six  days,  seven  d*  ys,  eight  days, 
nine  days. 

With  a hope  ever  darkening,  and  with  a heart  always  growing  heavier  and 
heavier,  Mr.  Lorry  passed  through  this  anxious  time.  The  secret  was  well  kept, 
and  Lucie  was  unconscious  and  happy  ; but  he  could  not  fail  to  observe  that  the 
shoemaker,  whose  hand  had  been  a little  out  at  first,  was  growing  dreadfully  skil- 
ful, and  that  he  had  never  been  so  intent  on  his  work,  and  that  his  hands  had 
never  been  so  nimble  and  expert,  as  in  the  dusk  of  the  ninth  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN  OPINION. 

Worn  out  by  anxious  watching,  Mr.  Lorry  fell  asleep  at  his  post.  On  the  tenth 
morning  of  his  suspense,  he  was  startled  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  into  the  room 
where  a heavy  slumber  had  overtaken  him  when  it  was  dark  night. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  roused  himself ; but  he  doubted,  when  he  had  done  so, 
whether  he  was  not  still  asleep.  For,  going  to  the  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room 
and  looking  in,  he  perceived  that  the  shoemaker’s  bench  and  tools  were  put  aside 
again,  and  that  the  Doctor  himself  sat  reading  at  the  window.  He  was  in  his 
usual  morning  dress,  and  his  face  (which  Mr.  Lorry  could  distinctly  see),  though 
still  veiy  pale,  was  calmly  studious  and  attentive. 

Even  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  awake,  Mr.  Lorry  felt  giddily 
uncertain  for  some  few  moments  whether  the  late  shoemaking  might  not  be  a 
disturbed  dream  of  his  own;  for,  did  not  his  eyes  show  him  his  friend  before  him 
in  his  accustomed  clothing  and  aspect,  and  employed  as  usual;  and  was  there  any 
sign  within  their  range,  that  the  change  of  which  he  had  so  strong  an  impression 
had  actually  happened  ? 

It  was  but  the  inquiry  of  his  first  confusion  and  astonishment,  the  answer  being 
obvious.  If  the  impression  were  not  produced  by  a real  corresponding  and  suffi- 
cient cause,  how  came  he,  Jarvis  Lorry,  there  ? How  came  he  to  have  fallen 
asleep,  in  his  clothes,  on  the  sofa  in  Dr.  Manette’s  consulting-room,  and  to  be 
debating  these  points  outside  the  Doctor’s  bed-room  door  in  the  early  morning. 

Within  a few  minutes.  Miss  Pross  stood  wdiispering  at  his  side.  If  he  had  had 
any  particle  of  doubt  left,  her  talk  would  of  necessity  have  resolved  it ; but  he  was 
by  that  time  clear-headed,  and  had  none.  He  advised  that  they  should  let  the 
time  go  by  until  the  regular  breakfast-hour,  and  should  then  meet  the  Doctor  as  if 
nothing  unusual  had  occurred.  If  he  appeared  to  be  in  his  customary  state  of 


Consultation  with  the  Doctor . 


11! 

mind,  Mr.  Lorry  would  then  cautiously  proceed  to  seek  direction  and  guidance 
from  the  opinion  he  had  been,  in  his  anxiety,  so  anxious  to  obtain. 

Miss  Pross,  submitting  herself  to  his  judgment,  the  scheme  was  worked  out  with 
care.  Having  abundance  of  time  for  his  usual  methodical  toilette,  Mr.  Lorry 
presented  himself  at  the  breakfast-hour  in  his  usual  white  linen,  and  with  his 
usual  neat  leg.  The  Doctor  was  summoned  in  the  usual  way,  and  came  to  breakfast. 

So  far  as  it  was  possible  to  comprehend  him  without  overstepping  those  delicate 
and  gradual  approaches  which  Mr.  Lorry  felt  to  be  the  only  safe  advance,  he  at 
first  supposed  that  his  daughter’s  marriage  had  taken  place  yesterday.  An 
incidental  allusion,  purposely  thrown  out,  to  the  day  of  the  week,  and  the  day  of 
the  month,  set  him  thinking  and  counting,  and  evidently  made  him  uneasy.  In 
all  other  respects,  however,  he  was  so  composedly  himself,  that  Mr.  Lorry  deter- 
mined to  have  the  aid  he  sought.  And  that  aid  was  his  own. 

Therefore,  when  the  breakfast  was  done  and  cleared  away,  and  he  and  the 
Doctor  were  left  together,  Mr.  Lorry  said,  feelingly  : 

“ My  dear  Manette,  I am  anxious  to  have  your  opinion,  in  confidence,  on  a very 
curious  case  in  which  I am  deeply  interested  ; that  is  to  say,  it  is  very  curious  to 
me  ; perhaps,  to  your  better  information  it  may  be  less  so.” 

Glancing  at  his  hands,  which  were  discoloured  by  his  late  work,  the  Doctor 
looked  troubled,  and  listened  attentively.  He  had  already  glanced  at  his  hands 
more  than  once. 

“ Doctor  Manette,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  touching  him  affectionately  on  the  arm, 
“ the  case  is  the  case  of  a particularly  dear  friend  of  mine.  Pray  give  your  mind  to 
it,  and  advise  me  well  for  his  sake — and  above  all,  for  his  daughter’s — his  daughter’s, 
my  dear  Manette.” 

“ If  I understand,”  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued  tone,  “ some  mental 

shock ? ” 

“Yes!” 

“ Be  explicit,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ Spare  no  detail.” 

Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  and  proceeded. 

“My  dear  Manette,  it  is  the  case  of  an  old  and  a prolonged  shock,  of  great 
acuteness  and  severity  to  the  affections,  the  feelings,  the — the — as  you  express  it 
—the  mind.  The  mind.  It  is  the  case  of  a shock  under  which  the  sufferer  was 
borne  down,  one  cannot  say  for  how  long,  because  I believe  he  cannot  calculate 
the  time  himself,  and  there  are  no  other  means  of  getting  at  it.  It  is  the  case  of 
a shock  from  which  the  sufferer  recovered,  by  a process  that  he  cannot  trace  him- 
self—as  I once  heard  him  publicly  relate  in  a striking  manner.  It  is  the  case  of  a 
shock  from  which  he  has  recovered,  so  completely,  as  to  be  a highly  intelligent 
man,  capable  of  close  application  of  mind,  and  great  exertion  of  body,  and  of 
constantly  making  lresh  additions  to  his  stock  of  knowledge,  which  was  already 
very  large.  But,  unfortunately,  there  has  been,”  he  paused  and  took  a deep  breath 
— “ a slight  relapse.” 

The  Doctor,  in  a low  voice,  asked,  “ Of  how  long  duration  ? ” 

“ Nine  days  and  nights.” 

“How  did  it  show  itself?  I infer,”  glancing  at  his  hand?  again,  “in  the 
resumption  of  some  old  pursuit  connected  with  the  shock  ?” 

“ That  is  the  fact.” 

“Now,  did  you  ever  see  him,”  asked  the  Doctor,  distinctly  and  collectedly, 
though  in  the  same  low  voice,  “ engaged  in  that  pursuit  originally  ? ” 

“ Once.” 

“ And  when  the  relapse  fell  on  him,  was  he  in  most  respects — or  in  all  respect! 
•-as  he  was  then  ? ” 

“ I think  in  all  respects,” 


1 1 6 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ You  spoke  of  his  daughter.  Does  his  daughter  know  of  the  relapse  ? ” 

“ No.  It  has  been  kept  from  her,  and  I hope  will  always  be  kept  from  her. 
It  is  known  only  to  myself,  and  to  one  other  who  may  be  trusted.” 

The  Doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  murmured,  “ That  was  very  kind.  That  was 
very  thoughtful ! ” Mr.  Lorry  grasped  his  hand  in  return,  and  neither  of  the  two 
spoke  for  a little  while. 

“ Now,  my  dear  Manett.',’’  said  Mr.  Lorry,  at  length,  in  his  most  considerate 
and  most  affectionate  way,  “lam  a mere  man  of  business,  and  unfit  to  cope 
with  such  intricate  and  difficult  matters.  I do  not  possess  the  kind  of  information 
necessary  ; I do  not  possess  the  kind  of  intelligence  ; I want  guiding.  There  is 
no  man  in  this  world  on  whom  I could  so  rely  for  right  guidance,  as  on  you.  Tell 
me,  how  does  this  relapse  come  about  ? Is  there  danger  of  another  ? Could  a 
repetition  of  it  be  prevented  ? How  should  a repetition  of  it  be  treated  ? How 
does  it  come  about  at  all  ? What  can  I do  for  my  friend  ? No  man  ever  can 
have  been  more  desirous  in  his  heart  to  serve  a friend,  than  I am  to  serve  mine, 
if  I knew  how.  But  I don’t  know  how  to  originate,  in  such  a case.  If  your 
sagacity,  knowledge,  and  experience,  could  put  me  on  the  right  track,  I might  be 
able  to  do  so  much  ; unenlightened  and  undirected,  I can  do  so  little.  Pray  dis- 
cuss it  with  me ; pray  enable  me  to  see  it  a little  more  clearly,  and  teach  me  how 
to  be  a little  more  useful.” 

Doctor  Manette  sat  meditating  after  these  earnest  words  were  spoken,  and  Mr. 
Lorry  did  not  press  him. 

“1  think  it  probable,”  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence  with  an  effort,  “that 
the  relapse  you  have  described,  my  dear  friend,  was  not  quite  unforeseen  bv  its 
subject.” 

“ Was  it  dreaded  by  him  ?”  Mr.  Lorry  ventured  to  ask. 

“Very  much.”  He  said  it  with  an  involuntary  shudder. 

“You  have  no  idea  how  such  an  apprehension  weighs  on  the  sufferer’s  mind, 
and  how  difficult — how  almost  impossible — it  is,  for  him  to  force  himself  to  utter 
a word  upon  the  topic  that  oppresses  him.” 

“Would  he,”  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  “ be  sensibly  relieved  if  he  could  prevail  upon 
himself  to  impart  that  secret  brooding  to  any  one,  when  it  is  on  him  ? ” 

“ I think  so.  But  it  is,  as  I have  told  you,  next  to  impossible.  I even  believe 
it — in  some  cases — to  be  quite  impossible.” 

“Now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  the  Doctor’s  arm  again, 
after  a short  silence  on  both  sides,  “ to  what  would  you  refer  this  attack  ? ” 

“I  believe,”  returned  Doctor  Manette,  “that  there  had  been  a strong  and 
extraordinary  revival  of  the  train  of  thought  and  remembrance  that  was  the  first 
cause  of  the  malady.  Some  intense  associations  of  a most  distressing  nature  were 
vividly  recalled,  I think.  It  is  probable  that  there  had  long  been  a dread  lurking 
in  his  mind,  that  those  associations  would  be  recalled — say,  under  certain  circum- 
stances— say,  on  a particular  occasion.  He  tried  to  prepare  himself  in  vain  ; per- 
haps the  effort  to  prepare  himself  made  him  less  able  to  bear  it.” 

“ Would  he  remember  what  took  place  in  the  relapse  ?”  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  with 
naturcil  hesitation. 

The  Doctor  looked  desolately  round  the  room,  shook  his  head,  and  answered,  in 
a lovr  ^oice,  “Not  at  all.” 

“Now,  as  to  the  future,”  hinted  Mr.  Lorry. 

“As  to  the  future,”  said  the  Doctor,  recovering  firmness,  “ I should  have  great 
hope.  As  it  pleased  Heaven  in  its  mercy  to  restore  him  so  soon,  I should  have 
great  hope.  He,  yielding  under  the  pressure  of  a complicated  something,  long 
dreaded  and  long  vaguely  foreseen  and  contended  against,  and  recovering  after  th« 
cloud  had  burst  and  passed,  X should  hope  that  the  worst  was  over.” 


Approaching  Sacrifice  of  an  old  Companion . ! 17 

“ Weil,  well  ! That’s  good  comfort.  I am  thankful ! ” said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“I  am  thankful ! ” repeated  the  Doctor,  bending  his  head  with  reverence. 

“ There  are  two  other  points,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ on  which  I am  anxious  to  be 
instructed.  I may  go  on  ? ” 

“You  cannot  do  your  friend  a better  service.”  The  Doctor  gave  him  his 
hand. 

“To  the  first,  then.  He  is  of  a studious  habit,  and  unusually  energetic;  he 
applies  himself  with  great  ardour  to  the  acquisition  of  professional  knowledge, 
to  the  conducting  of  experiments,  to  many  things.  Now,  does  he  do  too  much  ?’* 

“ I think  not.  It  may  be  the  character  of  his  mind,  to  be  always  in  singulai 
need  of  occupation.  That  may  be,  in  part,  natural  to  it ; in  part,  the  result  of 
affliction.  The  less  it  was  occupied  with  healthy  things,  the  more  it  would  be  in 
danger  of  turning  in  the  unhealthy  direction.  He  may  have  observed  himself,  and 
made  the  discovery.” 

“ You  are  sure  that  he  is  not  under  too  great  a strain  ? ” 

“I  think  I am  quite  sure  of  it.” 

“ My  dear  Manette,  if  he  were  overworked  now ” 

“ My  dear  Lorry,  I doubt  if  that  could  easily  be.  There  has  been  a violent 
stress  in  one  direction,  and  it  needs  a counterweight.” 

“ Excuse  me,  as  a persistent  man  of  busings.  Assuming  for  a moment,  that 
he  was  overworked  ; it  would  show  itself  in  some  renewal  of  this  disorder  ? ” 

“ I do  not  think  so.  I do  not  think,”  said  Doctor  Manette  with  the  firmness  of 
self-conviction,  “ that  anything  but  the  one  train  of  association  would  renew  it. 
I think  that,  henceforth,  nothing  but  some  extraordinary  jarring  of  that  chord 
could  renew  it.  After  what  has  happened,  and  after  his  recovery,  I find  it  difficult 
to  imagine  any  such  violent  sounding  of  that  string  ag  in.  I trust,  and  I almost 
believe,  that  the  circumstances  likely  to  renew  it  are  exhausted.” 

He  spoke  with  the  diffidence  of  a man  who  knew  how  slight  a thing  would 
overset  the  delicate  organisation  of  the  mind,  and  yet  with  the  confidence  of  a man 
who  had  slowly  won  his  assurance  out  of  personal  endurance  and  distress.  It  was 
not  for  his  friend  to  abate  that  confidence..  He  professed  himself  more  relieved 
and  encouraged  than  he  really  was,  and  approached  his  second  and  last  point. 
He  felt  it  to  be  the  most  difficult  of  all;  but,  remembering  his  old  Sunday  morn- 
ing conversation  with  Miss  Pross,  and  remembering  what  he  had  seen  in  the  last 
nine  days,  he  knew  that  he  must  face  it. 

“ The  occupation  resumed  under  the  influence  of  this  passing  affliction  so  happily 
recovered  from,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clearing  his  throat,  “we  wid  call — Blacksmith’s 
work,  Blacksmith’s  w^ork.  We  will  say,  to  put  a case  and  for  the  sake  of  illustra- 
tion, that  he  had  been  used,  in  his  bad  time,  to  work  at  a little  forge.  We  will 
say  that  he  was  unexpectedly  found  at  his  forge  again.  Is  it  not  a pity  that  he 
should  keep  it  by  him  ? ” 

The  Doctoi  shaded  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  and  beat  his  foot  nervously  on 
the  ground. 

“ He  has  always  kept  it  by  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  an  anxious  look  at  his 
friend.  “ Now,  would  it  not  be  better  that  he  should  let  it  go  ? ” 

Still,  the  Doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  beat  his  foot  nervously  on  the  ground. 

“You  do  not  find  it  easy  to  advise  me  ? ” said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ I quite  understand 

it  to  be  a nice  question.  And  yet  I think ” And  there  he  shook  his  head, 

and  stopped. 

“ You  see,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  turning  to  him  after  an  uneasy  pause,  “ it  is 
very  hard  to  explain,  consistently,  the  innermost  workings  of  this  poor  man’s 
mind.  He  once  yearned  so  frightfully  for  that  occupation,  and  it  was  so  welcome 
when  it  came ; no  doubt  it  relieved  his  pain  so  much,  oy  substituting  the  perplexity 


ii8 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities « 


of  the  fingers  for  the  perplexity  of  the  brain,  and  by  substituting,  as  he  became 
more  practised,  the  ingenuity  of  the  hands,  for  the  ingenuity  of  the  mental  torture; 
that  he  has  never  been  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  putting  it  quite  out  of  his 
reach.  Even  now,  when  I believe  he  is  more  hopeful  of  himself  than  he  has  ever 
been,  and  even  speaks  of  himself  with  a kind  of  confidence,  the  idea  that  he  might 
need  that  old  employment,  and  not  find  it,  gives  him  a sudden  sense  of  terror,  like 
that  which  one  may  fancy  strikes  to  the  heart  of  a lost  child.” 

He  looked  like  his  illustration,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Mr.  Lorry’s  face. 

“ But  may  not — mind!  I ask  for  information,  as  a plodding  man  of  business 
who  only  deals  with  such  material  objects  as  guineas,  shillings,  and  bank-notes — 
may  not  the  retention  of  the  thing  involve  the  retention  of  the  idea  ? If  the  thing 
were  gone,  my  dear  Manette,  might  not  the  fear  go  with  it  ? In  short,  is  it  not  a 
concession  to  the  misgiving,  to  keep  the  forge  ? ” 

There  was  another  silence. 

“You  see,  too,”  said  the  Doctor,  tremulously,  “it  is  such  an  old  companion.” 
“I  would  not  keep  it,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his  head;  for  he  gained  in 
firmness  as  he  saw  the  Doctor  disquieted.  “I  would  recommend  him  to  sacri- 
fice it.  I only  want  your  authority.  I am  sure  it  does  no  good.  Come  ! Give 
me  your  authority,  like  a dear  good  man.  For  his  daughter’s  sake,  my  dear 
Manette ! ” 

Very  strange  to  see  what  a struggle  there  was  within  him  ! 

“ In  her  name,  then,  let  it  be  done  ; I sanction  it.  But,  I would  not  take  it 
away  while  he  was  present.  Let  it  be  removed  when  he  is  not  there  ; let  him 
miss  his  old  companion  after  an  absence.” 

Mr.  Lorry  readily  engaged  for  that,  and  the  conference  was  ended.  They 
passed  the  day  in  the  country,  and  the  Doctor  was  quite  restored.  On  the  three 
following  days  he  remained  perfectly  well,  and  on  the  fourteenth  day  he  went 
away  to  join  Lucie  and  her  husband.  The  precauiion  that  had  been  taken  to 
account  for  his  silence,  Mr.  Lorry  had  previously  explained  to  him,  and  he  had 
written  to  Lucie  in  accordance  with  it,  and  she  had  no  suspicions. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  he  left  the  house,  Mr.  Lorry  went  into  his 
room  with  a chopper,  saw,  chisel,  and  hammer,  attended  by  Miss  Pross  carrying 
a light.  There,  wnh  closed  doors,  and  in  a mysterious  and  guilty  manner, 
Mr.  Lorry  hacked  the  shoemaker’s  bench  to  pieces,  while  Miss  Pross  held  the 
candle  as  if  she  were  assisting  at  a murder — for  which,  indeed,  in  her  grimness, 
she  was  no  unsuitable  figure.  The  burning  of  the  body  (previously  reduced  to 
pieces  convenient  for  the  purpose)  was  commenced  without  delay  in  the  kitchen 
fire ; and  the  tools,  shoes,  and  leather,  were  buried  in  the  garden.  So  wicked 
do  destruction  and  secrecy  appear  to  honest  minds,  that  Mr.  Lorry  and  Miss 
Pross,  while  engaged  in  the  commission  of  their  deed  and  in  the  removal  of  it* 
traces,  almost  felt,  and  almost  looked,  like  accomplices  in  a horrible  crime. 


Sydney  Carton  becomes  the  Family-friend . 


119 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A PLEA. 

When  the  newly-married  pair  came  home,  the  first  person  who  appeared,  to  offei 
his  congratulations,  was  Sydney  Carton.  They  had  not  been  at  home  many  hours, 
when  he  presented  himself.  He  was  not  improved  in  habits,  or  in  looks,  or  in 
manner  ; but  there  was  a certain  rugged  air  of  fidelity  about  him,  which  was  new 
to  the  observation  of  Charles  Darnay. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  of  taking  Darnay  aside  into  a window,  and  of 
sptaking  to  him  when  no  one  overheard. 

* Mr.  Darnay,”  said  Carton,  “ I wish  we  might  be  friends.” 

“We  are  already  friends,  I hope.” 

“ You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  as  a fashion  of  speech  ; but,  I don’t  mean 
any  fashion  of  speech.  Indeed,  when  I say  I wish  we  might  be  friends,  I scarcely 
mean  quite  that,  either.” 

Charles  Darnay — as  was  natural — asked  him,  in  ail  good-humour  and  good- 
fellowship,  what  he  did  mean  ? 

“ Upon  my  life,”  said  Carton,  smiling,  “ I find  that  easier  to  comprehend  in 
my  own  mind,  than  to  convey  to  yours.  However,  let  me  try.  You  remember  a 
certain  famous  occasion  when  I was  more  drunk  than — than  usual  ?” 

‘ ‘ I remember  a certain  famous  occasion  when  you  forced  me  to  confess  that 
you  had  been  drinking.” 

“ I remember  it  too.  The  curse  of  those  occasions  is  heavy  upon  me,  for  I 
always  remember  them.  I hope  it  may  be  taken  into  account  one  day,  when  all 
days  are  at  an  end  for  me  ! Don’t  be  alarmed  ; I am  not  going  to  preach.” 

“ I am  not  at  all  alarmed.  Earnestness  in  you,  is  anything  but  alarming  to  me.” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Carton,  with  a careless  wave  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  waved  that 
away.  “ On  the  drunken  occasion  in  question  (one  of  a large  number,  as  you 
know),  I was  insufferable  about  liking  you,  and  not  liking  you.  I wish  you  would 
forget  it.” 

“ I forgot  it  long  ago.” 

“ Fashion  of  speech  again  ! But,  Mr.  Damay,  oblivion  is  not  so  easy  to  me,  as 
you  represent  it  to  be  to  you.  I have  by  no  means  forgotten  it,  and  a light  answer 
does  not  help  me  to  forget  it.” 

“ If  it  was  a light  answer,”  returned  Darnay,  “ I beg  your  forgiveness  for  it.  I 
had  no  other  object  than  to  turn  a slight  thing,  which,  to  my  surprise,  seems  to 
trouble  you  too  much,  aside.  I declare  to  you,  on  the  faith  of  a gentleman,  that 
I have  long  dismissed  it  from  my  mind.  Good  Heaven,  what  was  there  to  dismiss! 
Have  I had  nothing  more  important  to  remember,  in  the  great  service  you  rendered 
me  that  day  ?” 

“ As  to  the  great  service,”  said  Carton,  “ I am  bound  to  avow  to  you,  when  you 
speak  of  it  in  that  way,  that  it  was  mere  professional  claptrap.  I don’t  know  that 
I cared  what  became  of  you,  when  I rendered  it. — Mind  ! I say  when  I rendered 
it;  I am  speaking  of  the  past.” 

“ Yrou  make  light  of  the  obligation,”  returned  Darnay,  “but  I will  not  quarrel 
with  your  light  answer.” 

“ Genuine  truth,  Mr.  Damay,  trust  me  ! I have  gone  aside  from  my  purpose  ; 
I was  speaking  about  our  being  friends.  Now,  you  know  me ; you  know  I am 
incapable  of  all  the  higher  and  better  flights  of  men.  If  you  doibt  it,  ask  Stryver, 
tnd  he’ll  tell  you  so.” 


r2o 


J Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ I prefer  to  form  my  own  opinion,  without  the  aid  of  his.” 

“ Weil ! At  any  rate  you  know  me  as  a dissolute  dog,  who  hai  never  done  any 
good,  and  never  will.” 

“ I don’t  know  that  you  * never  will.’  ” 

“ But  I do,  and  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Well ! If  you  could  endure  to 
have  such  a worthless  fellow,  and  a fellow  of  such  indifferent  reputation,  coming 
and  going  at  odd  times,  I should  ask  that  I might  be  permitted  to  come  and  go 
as  a privileged  person  here ; that  I might  be  regarded  as  an  useless  (and  I would 
add,  if  it  were  not  for  the  resemblance  I detected  between  you  and  me),  an  un- 
ornamental, piece  of  furniture,  tolerated  for  its  old  service,  and  taken  no  notice  of. 
I doubt  if  I should  abuse  the  permission.  It  is  a hundred  to  one  if  I should  avail 
myself  of  it  four  times  in  a year.  It  would  satisfy  me,  I dare  say,  to  know  that  I 
had  it.” 

“ Will  you  try  ? ” 

“ That  is  another  way  of  saying  that  I am  placed  on  the  footii  g I have  indi» 
cated.  I thank  you,  Darnay.  I may  use  that  freedom  with  your  m me  ? ” 

“ I think  so,  Carton,  by  this  time.” 

They  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  Sydney  turned  away.  Within  a minute  alter 
wards,  he  was,  to  all  outward  appearance,  as  unsubstantial  as  ever. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  in  the  course  of  an  evening  passed  with  Miss  Press, 
the  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Lorry,  Charles  Darnay  made  some  mention  of  this  conversa- 
tion in  general  terms,  and  spoke  of  Sydney  Carton  as  a problem  of  carelessness 
and  recklessness.  He  spoke  of  him,  in  short,  not  bitterly  or  meaning  tu  bear  hard 
upon  him,  but  as  anybody  might  who  saw  him  as  he  showed  himself. 

He  had  no  idea  that  this  could  dwell  in  the  thoughts  of  his  fair  young  wife ; 
but,  when  he  afterwards  joined  her  in  their  own  rooms,  he  found  her  waiting  for 
him  with  the  old  pretty  lifting  of  the  forehead  strongly  marked. 

“ We  are  thoughtful  to-night ! ” said  Darnay,  drawing  his  arm  about  her. 

“ Yes,  dearest  Charles,”  with  her  hands  on  his  breast,  and  the  inquiring  and 
attentive  expression  fixed  upon  him  ; “ we  are  rather  thoughtful  to-night,  for  we 
have  something  on  our  mind  to-night.” 

“ What  is  it,  my  Lucie  ?” 

“ Will  you  promise  not  to  press  one  question  on  me,  if  I beg  you  not  to 
ask  it  ?” 

“ Will  I promise  ? What  will  I not  promise  to  my  Love  ?” 

What,  indeed,  with  his  hand  putting  aside  the  golden  hair  from  the  cheek,  and 
his  other  hand  against  the  heart  that  beat  for  him  ! 

“ I think,  Charles,  poor  Mr.  Carton  deserves  more  consideration  and  respect 
than  you  expressed  for  him  to-night.” 

“ Indeed,  my  own  ? Why  so  ?” 

“ That  is  what  you  are  not  to  ask  me  ? But  I think — I know — he  does.” 

“ If  you  know  it,  it  is  enough.  What  would  you  have  me  do,  my  Life  ?” 

“ I would  ask  you,  dearest,  to  be  very  generous  with  him  always,  and  very  lenient 
on  his  faults  when  he  is  not  by.  I would  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  has  a heart 
he  very,  very  seldom  reveals,  and  that  there  are  deep  wounds  in  it.  My  dear,  I 
have  seen  it  bleeding.” 

“ It  is  a painful  reflection  to  me,”  said  Charles  Darnay,  quite  astounded, 
“ that  I should  have  done  him  any  wrong.  I never  thought  this  of  him.” 

“ My  husband,  it  is  so.  I fear  he  is  not  to  be  reclaimed  ; there  is  scarcely  a 
hope  that  anything  in  his  character  or  fortunes  is  reparable  now.  But,  I am  sure 
that  he  is  capable  of  good  things,  gentle  things,  even  magnanimous  things.” 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  the  purity  of  her  faith  in  this  lost  man,  that  lj  er  hus* 
band  could  have  looked  at  her  as  she  was  for  hours. 


Sympathy  for  poor  Carton . 


121 


u And,  O my  dearest  Love  !”  she  urged,  clinging  nearer  to  him,  laying  he? 
head  upon  his  breast,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  “ remember  how  strong  we  are 
in  our  happiness,  and  how  weak  he  is  in  his  misery  !” 

The  supplication  touched  him  home.  “ 1 will  always  remember  it,  dear  Heart ! 
I will  remember  it  as  long  as  I live.” 

He  bent  over  the  golden  head,  and  put  the  rosy  lips  to  his,  and  folded  her  in 
his  arms.  If  one  forlorn  wanderer  then  pacing  the  dark  streets,  could  have  heard 
her  innocent  disclosure,  and  could  have  seen  the  drops  of  pity  kissed  away  by  her 
husband  from  the  soft  blue  eyes  so  loving  of  that  husband,  he  might  have  cried 
to  the  night — and  the  words  would  not  have  parted  from  his  lips  for  the  first 
time — 

“ God  bless  her  for  her  sweet  compassion  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 

A WONDERFUL  corner  for  echoes,  it  has  been  remarked,  that  corner  where  the 
Doctor  lived.  Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband, 
and  her  father,  and  herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  companion,  in  a life  of 
quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still  house  in  the  tranquilly  resounding  corner,  listen- 
ing to  the  echoing  footsteps  of  years. 

At  first,  there  were  times,  though  she  was  a perfectly  happy  young  wife,  when 
her  work  would  slowly  fall  from  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed.  For, 
there  was  something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something  light,  afar  off,  and  scarcely 
audible  yet,  that  stirred  her  heart  too  much.  Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts — * 
hopes,  of  a love  as  yet  unknown  to  her : doubts,  of  her  remaining  upon  earth,  to 
enjoy  that  new  delight — divided  her  breast.  Among  the  echoes  then,  there  would 
arise  the  sound  of  footsteps  at  her  own  early  grave  ; and  thoughts  of  the  husband 
who  would  be  left  so  desolate,  and  who  would  mourn  for  her  so  much,  swelled  to 
her  eyes,  and  broke  like  waves. 

That  time  passed,  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bosom.  Then,  among  the 
advancing  echoes,  there  was  the  tread  of  her  tiny  feet  and  the  sound  of  her 
prattling  words.  Let  greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the  young  mother  at 
the  cradle  side  could  always  hear  those  coming.  They  came,  and  the  shady  house 
was  sunny  with  a child’s  laugh,  and  the  Divine  friend  of  children,  to  whom  in  her 
trouble  she  had  confided  hers,  seemed  to  take  her  child  in  his  arms,  as  He  took 
the  child  of  old,  and  made  it  a sacred  joy  to  her. 

Ever  busil\  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound  them  all  together,  weaving  the 
service  of  her  happy  influence  through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making  it 
predominate  nowhere,  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of  years  none  but  friendly  and 
soothing  sounds.  Her  husband’s  step  was  strong  and  prosperous  among  them  ; 
her  father’s  firm  and  equal.  Lo,  Miss  Pross,  in  harness  of  string,  awakening  the 
echoes,  as  an  unruly  charger,  whip-corrected,  snorting  and  pawing  the  earth  under 
the  plane-tree  in  the  garden  ! 

Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the  rest,  they  were  not  harsh 
nor  cruel.  Even  when  golden  hair,  like  her  own,  lay  in  a halo  on  a pillow  round 
the  worn  face  of  a little  boy,  and  he  said,  with  a radiant  smile,  “ Dear  papa  and 
mamma,  I am  very  sorry  to  leave  you  both,  and  to  leave  my  pretty  sister ; but  I 
am  called,  and  I must  go  !”  those  were  not  tears  all  of  agony  that  wetted  his 
young  mother’s  cheek,  as  the  spirit  departed  from  her  embrace  that  ha4  bees 


Ill  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


entrusted  to  it.  Suffer  them  and  forbid  them  not.  They  see  my  Father’s  lace, 
O Father,  blessed  words  ! 

Thus,  the  rustling  of  an  Angel’s  wings  got  blended  with  the  other  echoes,  and 
they  were  not  wholly  of  earth,  but  had  in  them  that  breath  of  Heaven.  Sighs  of 
the  winds  that  blew  over  a little  garden-tomb  were  mingled  with  them  also,  and 
both  were  audible  to  Lucie,  in  a hushed  murmur — like  the  breathing  of  a summer 
sea  asleep  upon  a sandy  shore — as  the  little  Lucie,  comically  studious  at  the  task  of 
the  morning,  01  dressing  a doll  at  her  mother’s  footstool,  chattered  in  the  tongues 
of  the  Two  Cities  that  were  blended  in  her  life. 

The  echoes  rarely  answered  to  the  actual  tread  of  Sydney  Carton.  Some  half- 
dozen  times  a year,  at  most,  he  claimed  his  privilege  of  coming  in  uninvited,  and 
would  sit  among  them  through  the  evening,  as  he  had  once  done  often.  He 
never  came  there  heated  with  wine.  And  one  other  thing  regarding  him  was 
whispered  in  the  echoes,  which  has  been  whispered  by  all  true  echoes  for  ages  and 
ages. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a woman,  lost  her,  and  knew  her  with  a blameless 
though  an  unchanged  mind,  when  she  was  a wife  and  a mother,  but  her  children 
had  a strange  sympathy  with  him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of  pity  for  him.  What 
fine  hidden  sensibilities  are  touched  in  such  a case,  no  echoes  tell ; but  it  is  so,  and 
it  was  so  here.  Carton  was  the  first  stranger  to  whom  little  Lucie  held  out  her 
chubby  arms,  and  he  kept  his  place  with  her  as  she  grew.  The  little  boy  had 
spoken  of  him,  almost  at  the  last.  “ Poor  Carton ! Kiss  him  for  me  !” 

Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  through  the  law,  like  some  great  engine  forcing 
itself  through  turbid  water,  and  dragged  his  useful  friend  in  his  wake,  like  a boat 
towed  astern.  As  the  boat  so  favoured  is  usually  in  a rough  plight,  and  mostly 
under  water,  so,  Sydney  had  a swamped  life  of  it.  But,  easy  and  strong  custom, 
unhappily  so  much  easier  and  stronger  in  him  than  any  stimulating  sense  of 
desert  or  disgrace,  made  it  the  life  he  was  to  lead  ; and  he  no  more  thought  of 
emerging  from  his  state  of  lion’s  jackal,  than  any  real  jackal  may  be  supposed  to 
think  of  rising  to  be  a lion.  Stryver  was  rich  ; had  married  a florid  widow  with 
property  and  three  boys,  who  had  nothing  particularly  shining  about  them  but  the 
straight  hair  of  their  dumpling  heads. 

These  three  young  gentlemen,  Mr.  Stryver,  exuding  patronage  of  the  most 
offensive  quality  from  every  pore,  had  walked  before  him  like  three  sheep  to  the 
quiet  corner  in  Soho,  and  had  offered  as  pupils  to  Lucie’s  husband  : delicately 
saying,  “ Halloa  ! here  are  three  lumps  of  bread-and-cheese  towards  your  matrimo- 
nial picnic,  Darnay !”  The  polite  rejection  of  the  three  lumps  of  bread-and-cheese 
had  quite  bloated  Mr.  Stryver  with  indignation,  which  he  afterwards  turned  to 
account  in  the  training  of  the  young  gentlemen,  by  directing  them  to  beware  of 
the  pride  of  Beggars,  like  that  tutor-fellow.  He  was  also  in  the  habit  of  declaiming 
to  Mrs.  Stryver,  over  his  full-bodied  wine,  on  the  arts  Mrs.  Darnay  had  once  put 
in  practice  to  ‘‘catch”  him,  and  on  the  diamond-cut-diamond  arts  in  himself, 
madam,  which  had  rendered  him  “not  to  be  caught.”  Some  of  his  King’s  Bench 
familiars,  who  were  occasionally  parties  to  the  full-bodied  wine  and  the  lie,  excused 
him  for  the  latter  by  saying  that  he  had  told  it  so  often,  that  he  believed  it  himself 
— which  is  surely  such  an  incorrigible  aggiavation  of  an  originally  bad  offence,  as 
to  justify  any  such  offender’s  being  carried  off  to  some  suitably  retired  spot,  and 
there  hanged  out  of  the  way. 

These  were  among  the  echoes  to  which  Lucie,  sometimes  pensive,  sometimes 
amused  and  laughing,  listened  in  the  echoing  corner,  until  her  little  daughter  was 
six  years  old.  How  near  to  her  heart  the  echoes  of  her  child’s  tread  came,  and 
those  of  her  own  dear  father’s,  always  active  and  self-possessed,  and  those  of  her 
dear  husband’s  need  not  be  told.  Nor,  how  the  lightest  echo  of  their  united 


The  fancy  of  the  footsteps. 


i*3 

home,  directed  by  herself  with  such  a wise  and  elegant  thrift  that  it  was  more 
abundant  than  any  waste,  was  music  to  her.  Nor,  how  there  were  echoes  all 
ibout  her,  sweet  in  her  ears,  of  the  many  times  her  father  had  told  her  that  he 
found  her  more  devoted  to  him  married  (if  that  could  be)  than  single,  and  of  the 
many  times  her  husband  had  said  to  her  that  no  cares  and  duties  seemed  to  divide 
her  love  for  hirr.  or  her  help  to  him,  and  asked  her  “ What  is  the  magic  secret,  my 
darling,  of  your  being  everything  to  all  of  us,  as  if  there  were  only  one  of  us,  yet 
never  seeming  to  be  hurried,  or  to  have  too  much  to  do  ?” 

But,  there  were  other  echoes,  from  a distance,  that  rumbled  menacingly  in  the 
corner  all  through  this  space  of  time.  And  it  was  now,  about  little  Lucie’s  sixth 
birthday,  that  they  began  to  have  an  awful  sound,  as  of  a great  storm  in  France 
with  a dreadful  sea  rising. 

On  a night  in  mid-July,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-nine,  Mr.  Lorry 
came  in  late,  from  Tellson’s,  and  sat  himself  down  by  Lucie  and  her  husband  in 
the  dark  window.  It  was  a hot,  wild  night,  and  they  were  all  three  reminded  of 
the  old  Sunday  night  when  they  had  looked  at  the  lightning  from  the  same 
place. 

“ I began  to  think,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pushing  his  brown  wig  back,  “that  I 
should  have  to  pass  the  night  at  Tellson’s.  We  have  been  so  full  of  business  all 
day,  that  we  have  not  known  what  to  do  first,  or  which  way  to  turn.  There  is 
such  an  uneasiness  in  Paris,  that  we  have  actually  a run  of  confidence  upon  us  ! 
Our  customers  over  there,  seem  not  to  be  able  to  confide  their  property  to  us  fast 
enough.  There  is  positively  a mania  among  some  of  them  for  sending  it  to 
England.” 

“ That  has  a bad  look,”  said  Damay. 

“ A bad  look,  you  say,  my  dear  Darnay  ? Yes,  but  we  don’t  know  what  reason 
there  is  in  it.  People  are  so  unreasonable  ! Some  of  us  at  Tellson’s  are  getting 
old,  and  we  really  can’t  be  troubled  out  of  the  ordinary  course  without  due 
occasion.” 

“ Still,”  said  Darnay,  “ you  know  how  gloomy  and  threatening  the  sky  is.” 

“I  know  that,  to  be  sure,”  assented  Mr.  Lorry,  trying  to  persuade  himself  that 
his  sweet  temper  was  soured,  and  that  he  grumbled,  “ but  I am  determined  to  be 
peevish  after  my  long  day’s  botheration.  Where  is  Manette  ? ” 

“ Here  he  is,”  said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  dark  room  at  the  moment. 

“ I am  quite  glad  you  are  at  home  ; for  these  hurries  and  forebodings  by  which 
I have  been  surrounded  all  day  long,  have  made  me  nervous  without  reason.  You 
are  not  going  out,  I hope  ?” 

“ No  ; I am  going  to  play  backgammon  with  you,  if  you  like,”  said  the  Doctor. 
“ I don’t  think  I do  like,  if  I may  speak  my  mind.  I am  not  fit  to  be  pitted 
against  you  to-night.  Is  the  teaboard  still  there,  Lucie  ? I can’t  see.” 

“ Of  course,  it  has  been  kept  for  you.” 

“ Thank  ye,  my  dear.  The  precious  child  is  safe  in  bed  ?” 

“ And  sleeping  soundly.” 

“ That’s  right ; all  safe  and  well ! I don’t  know  why  anything  should  be  other- 
wise than  safe  and  well  here,  thank  God ; but  I have  been  so  put  out  all  day,  and 
I am  not  as  young  as  I was ! My  tea,  my  dear ! Thank  ye.  Now,  come  and 
take  your  place  in  the  circle,  and  let  us  sit  quiet,  and  hear  the  echoes  about  which 
you  have  your  theory.” 

“ Not  a theory  ; it  was  a fancy.” 

“A  fancy,  then,  my  wise  pet,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  patting  her  hand.  “ They  are 
lery  numerous  and  very  loud,  though,  are  they  not  ? Only  hear  them  !” 

Headlong,  mad,  and  dangerous  footsteps  to  force  their  way  into  anybody’^  life* 


124 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


footsteps  aot  easily  made  clean  again  if  once  stained  red.  the  footsteps  raging  in 
Saint  Antoine  afar  off,  as  the  little  circle  sat  in  the  dark  London  window. 

Saint  Antoine  had  been,  that  morning,  a vast  dusky  mass  of  scarecrows  heaving 
to  and  fro,  with  frequent  gleams  of  light  above  the  billowy  heads,  where  steel 
blades  and  bayonets  shone  in  the  sun.  A tremendous  roar  arose  from  the  throat 
of  Saint  Antoine,  and  a forest  of  naked  arms  struggled  in  the  air  like  shrivelled 
branches  of  trees  in  a winter  wind  : all  the  fingers  convulsively  clutching  at  every 
weapon  or  semblance  of  a weapon  that  was  thrown  up  from  the  depths  below,  no 
matter  how  far  off. 

Who  gave  them  out,  whence  they  last  came,  where  they  began,  through  what 
agency  they  crookedly  quivered  and  jerked,  scores  at  a time,  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  like  a kind  of  lightning,  no  eye  in  the  throng  could  have  told  ; but,  muskets 
were  being  distributed — so  were  cartridges,  powder,  and  ball,  bars  of  iron  and 
wood,  knives,  axes,  pikes,  every  weapon  that  distracted  ingenuity  could  discover 
or  devise.  People  who  could  lay  hold  of  nothing  else,  set  themselves  with  bleeding 
hands  to  force  stones  and  bricks  out  of  their  places  in  walls.  Eveiy  pulse  and 
heart  in  Saint  Antoine  was  on  high-fever  strain  and  at  high-fever  heat.  Eveiy 
living  creature  there  held  life  as  of  no  account,  and  was  demented  with  a pas- 
sionate readiness  to  sacrifice  it. 

As  a whirlpool  of  boiling  waters  has  a centre  point,  so,  all  this  raging  circled 
round  Defarge’s  wine-shop,  and  every  human  drop  in  the  caldron  had  a tendency 
to  be  sucked  towards  the  vortex  where  Defarge  himself,  already  begrimed  with 
gunpowder  and  sweat,  issued  orders,  issued  arms,  thrust  this  man  back,  dragged 
this  man  forward,  disarmed  one  to  arm  another,  laboured  and  strove  in  the  thickest 
of  the  uproar. 

“ Keep  near  to  me,  Jacques  Three, ” cried  Defarge ; “ and  do  you,  Jacques 
One  and  Two,  separate  and  put  yourselves  at  the  head  of  as  many  of  these  patriots 
as  you  can.  Where  is  my  wife  ?”’ 

“ Eh,  well ! Here  you  see  me  !”  said  madame,  composed  as  ever,  but  not 
knitting  to-day.  Madame’s  resolute  right  hand  was  occupied  with  an  axe,  in 
place  of  the  usual  softer  implements,  and  in  her  girdle  were  a pistol  and  a cruel 
knife. 

“ Where  do  you  go,  my  wife  ?” 

“ I go,”  said  madame,  “ with  you  at  present.  You  shall  see  me  at  the  head  of 
women,  by-and-by.” 

“ Come,  then  !”  cried  Defarge,  in  a resounding  voice.  “ Patriots  and  friends, 
we  are  ready  ! The  Bastille !” 

With  a roar  that  sounded  as  if  all  the  breath  in  France  had  been  shaped  into 
the  detested  word,  the  living  sea  rose,  wave  on  wave,  depth  on  depth,  and  over- 
flowed the  city  to  that  point.  Alarm-bells  ringing,  drums  beating,  the  sea  raging 
and  thundering  on  its  new  beach,  the  attack  begun. 

Deep  ditches,  double  draw  >ridge,  massive  stone  walls,  eight  great  towers,  can- 
non, muskets,  fire  and  smoke.  Through  the  tire  and  through  the  smoke — in  the 
fire  and  in  the  smoke,  for  the  sea  cast  him  up  against  a cannon,  and  on  the  instant 
he  became  a cann n.ier — Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  worked  like  a manful  soldier, 
Two  tierce  hours. 

Deep  ditch,  single  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls,  eight  great  towers,  can- 
non, muskets,  fire  and  smoke.  One  drawbridge  down  ! “ Work,  comrades  all, 

work  ! Work,  Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  One  Thousand,  Jacques  I wo 
Thousand,  Jacques  Five-and-Twenty  Thousand  ; in  the  name  of  all  the  Angels  or 
the  Devils — which  you  prefer — work  I”  Thus  Defarge  ot  the  wine-shop,  still  at 
his  gun,  which  had  long  grown  hot. 

To  me,  women  !”  cried  madame  his  wife.  “ What ! We  can  kill  as  well  as 


One  Hundred  and  Five,  Not:h  Tower,  again . j*5 

the  men  when  the  place  is  taken  ! ’ And  to  her,  with  a shrill  thirsty  cry,  trooping 
women  variously  armed,  but  all  armed  alike  in  hunger  and  revenge. 

Cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke ; but,  still  the  deep  ditch,  the  single  draw- 
bridge, the  massive  stone  walls,  and  the  eight  great  towers.  Slight  displacements 
of  the  raging  sea,  made  by  the  falling  wounded.  Flashing  weapons,  blazing 
torches,  smoking  waggon-loads  of  wet  straw,  hard  work  at  neighbouring  barricades 
in  all  directions,  shrieks,  volleys,  execrations,  bravery  without  stint,  boom  smash 
and  rattle,  and  the  furious  sounding  of  the  living  sea  ; but,  still  the  deep  ditch,  and 
the  single  drawbridge,  and  the  massive  stone  walls,  and  the  eight  great  towers,  and 
still  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  at  his  gun,  grown  doubly  hot  by  the  service  of  Four 
fierce  hours. 

A white  flag  from  within  the  fortress,  and  a parley — this  dimly  perceptible 
through  the  raging  storm,  nothing  audible  in  it — suddenly  the  sea  rose  immea- 
surably wider  and  higher,  and  . swept  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  over  the  lowered 
drawbridge,  past  the  massive  stone  outer  walls,  in  among  the  eight  great  towers 
surrendered  ! 

So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  ocean  bearing  him  on,  that  even  to  draw  his 
breath  or  turn  his  head  was  as  impracticable  as  if  he  had  been  struggling  in  the 
surf  at  the  South  Sea,  until  he  was  landed  in  the  outer  couit-yard  of  the  Bastille. 
There,  against  an  angle  of  a wall,  he  made  a struggle  to  look  about  him.  Jacques 
Three  was  nearly  at  his  side ; Madame  Defarge,  still  heading  some  of  her  women, 
was  visible  in  the  inner  distance,  and  her  knife  was  in  her  hand.  Everywhere  was 
tumult,  exultation,  deafening  and  maniacal  bewilderment,  astounding  noise,  yet 
furious  dumb-show. 

“ The  Prisoners  ! ” 

“ The  Records  ! ” 

“ The  secret  cells  ! ” 

“ The  instruments  of  torture ! ” 

The  Prisoners  ! ” 

Of  all  these  cries,  and  ten  thousand  incoherencies,  “ The  Prisoners  ! ” were  the 
cry  most  taken  up  by  the  sea  that  rushed  in,  as  if  there  were  an  eternity  of  people, 
as  well  as  of  time  and  space.  When  the  foremost  billows  rolled  past,  bearing  the 
prison  officers  with  them,  and  threatening  them  all  with  instant  death  if  any  secret 
nook  remained  undisclosed,  Defarge  laid  his  st'ong  hand  on  the  breast  of  one  of 
these  men — a man  with  a grev  head,  who  had  a lighted  torch  in  his  hand — sepa- 
rated him  from  the  rest,  and  got  him  between  himself  and  the  wall. 

“ Show  me  the  North  Tower  ! ” said  Defarge.  “ Quick  ! ” 

“ I will  faithfully,”  replied  the  man,  “ if  you  will  come  with  me.  But  there  is 
no  one  there.” 

“ What  is  the  meaning  of  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower  ? ” asked 
Defarge.  “ Quick  ! ” 

“ The  meaning,  monsieur  ? ” 

“ Does  it  mean  a captive,  or  a place  of  captivity  ? Or  do  you  mean  that  I shall 
strike  you  dead  ? ” 

“ Kill  him  ! ” croaked  Jacques  Three,  who  had  come  close  up. 

“ Monsieur,  it  is  a cell.” 

“ Show  it  me  ! ” 

“ Pass  this  way,  then.” 

Jacques  Three,  with  his  usual  craving  on  him,  and  evidently  disappointed  by 
the  dialogue  taking  a turn  that  did  not  seem  to  promise  bloodshed,  held  by 
Defarge’s  arm  as  he  held  by  the  turnkey’s.  Their  three  heads  had  been  close 
together  during  this  brief  discourse,  and  it  had  been  as  much  as  they  could  do  to 
hear  one  another,  even  then : sc  tremendous  was  the  noise  of  the  living  osean,  i* 


126 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities , 


its  irruption  into  the  Fortress,  and  its  inundation  of  the  courts  and  passages  and 
staircases.  All  around  outside,  too,  it  beat  the  walls  with  a deep,  hoarse  roar, 
from  which,  occasionally,  some  partial  shouts  of  tumult  broke  and  leaped  into  the 
air  like  spray. 

Through  gloomy  vaults  where  the  light  of  day  had  never  shone,  past  hideous 
doors  of  dark  dens  and  cages,  down  wernous  flights  of  steps,  and  again  up  steep 
rugged  ascents  of  stone  and  brick,  more  like  dry  waterfalls  than  staircases,  Defarge, 
the  turnkey,  and  Jacques  Three,  linked  hand  and  arm,  went  with  all  the  speed 
they  could  make.  Here  and  there,  especially  at  first,  the  inundation  started  on 
them  and  swept  by  ; but  when  they  had  done  descending,  and  were  winding  and 
climbing  up  a tower,  they  were  alone.  Hemmed  in  here  by  the  massive  thickness 
of  walls  and  arches,  the  storm  within  the  fortress  and  without  was  only  audible  to 
them  in  a dull,  subdued  way,  as  if  the  noise  out  of  which  they  had  come  had 
almost  destroyed  their  sense  of  hearing. 

The  turnkey  stopped  at  a low  door,  put  a key  in  a clashing  lock,  swung  the  door 
slowly  open,  and  said,  as  they  all  bent  their  heads  and  passed  in  : 

“ One  hundred  and  five,  North  Tower  ! ” 

There  was  a small,  heavily-grated,  unglazed  window  high  in  the  wall,  with  a 
stone  screen  before  it,  so  that  the  sky  could  be  only  seen  by  stooping  low  and 
looking  up.  There  was  a small  chimney,  heavily  barred  across,  a few  feet  within. 
There  was  a heap  of  old  feathery  wood-ashes  on  the  hearth.  There  was  a stool, 
and  table,  and  a straw  bed.  There  were  the  four  blackened  walls,  and  a rusted 
iron  ring  in  one  of  them. 

“ Pass  that  torch  slowly  along  these  walls,  that  I may  see  them,”  said  Defarge 
to  the  turnkey.  , 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Defarge  followed  the  light  closely  with  his  eyes. 

“ Stop  ! — Look  here,  Jacques  ! ” 

“ A.  M.  ! ” croaked  Jacques  Three,  as  he  read  greedily. 

“ Alexandre  Manette,”  said  Defarge  in  his  ear,  following  the  letters  with  his 
swart  forefinger,  deeply  engrained  with  gunpowder.  “ And  here  he  wrote  ‘ a poor 
physician.’  And  it  was  he,  without  doubt,  who  scratched  a calendar  on  this 
stone.  What  is  that  in  your  hand  ? A crowbar  ? Give  it  me  ! ” 

He  had  still  the  linstock  of  his  gun  in  his  own  hand.  He  made  a sudden 
exchange  of  the  two  instruments,  and  turning  on  the  worm-eaten  stool  and  table, 
beat  them  to  pieces  in  a few  blows. 

“ Hold  the  light  higher  ! ” he  said,  wrathfully,  to  the  turnkey.  “ Look  among 
those  fragments  with  care,  Jacques.  And  see  ! Here  is  my  knife,”  throwing  it 
to  him  ; “rip  open  that  bed,  and  search  the  straw.  Hold  the  light  higher, 
you ! ” 

With  a menacing  look  at  the  turnkey  he  crawled  upon  the  hearth,  and,  peering 
up  the  chimney,  struck  and  prised  at  its  sides  with  the  crowbar,  and  worked  at 
the  iron  grating  across  it.  In  a few  minutes,  some  mortar  and  dust  came  drop- 
ping  down,  which  he  averted  his  face  to  avoid;  and  in  it,  and  in  the  old  wood- 
ashes,  and  in  a crevice  in  the  chimney  into  which  his  weapon  had  slipped  or 
wrought  itself,  he  groped  with  a cautious  touch. 

“ Nothing  in  the  wood,  and  nothing  in  the  straw,  Jacques  ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Let  us  collect  them  together,  in  the  middle  of  the  cell.  So  ! Light  them, 
you  ! ” 

The  turnkey  fired  the  little  pile,  which  blazed  high  and  hot.  Stooping  again  to 
come  out  at  the  low-arched  door,  they  left  it  burning,  and  retraced  their  way  to 
the  court  yard  ; seeming  to  recover  their  sense  of  hearing  as  they  came  down,  und) 
they  were  in  the  raging  flood  once  more. 


The  Bastille  down . 


1*7 


They  found  it  surging  and  tossing,  in  quest  of  Defarge  himself.  Saint  Antoine 
was  clamorous  to  have  its  wine-shop  keeper  foremost  in  the  guard  upon  the 
governor  who  had  defended  the  Bastille  and  shot  the  people.  Otherwise,  the 
governor  would  not  be  marched  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  for  judgment.  Otherwise, 
the  governor  would  escape,  and  the  people’s  blood  (suddenly  of  some  value,  alter 
many  years  of  worthlessness)  be  unavenged. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  contention  that  seemed  to  encompass 
this  grim  old  officer  conspicuous  in  his  greycoat  and  red  decoration,  there  was  but 
^one  quite  steady  figure,  and  that  was  a woman’s.  “ See,  there  is  my  husband  ! ’* 
she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  “ See  Defarge ! ” She  stood  immovable  close  to 
the  grim  old  officer,  and  remained  immovable  close  to  him  ; remained  immovable 
close  to  him  through  the  streets,  as  Defarge  and  the  rest  bore  him  along  ; re- 
mained immovable  close  to  him  when  he  was  got  near  his  destination,  and  began 
to  be  struck  at  from  behind  ; remained  immovable  close  to  him  when  the  long- 
gatheringrain  of  stabs  and  blows  fell  heavy  ; was  so  close  to  him  when  he  dropped 
dead  under  it,  that,  suddenly  animated,  she  put  her  foot  upon  his  neck,  and  with 
her  cruel  knife — long  ready — hewed  off  his  head. 

The  hour  was  come,  when  Saint  Antoine  was  to  execute  his  horrible  idea  of  hoist- 
ing up  men  for  lamps  to  show  what  he  could  be  and  do.  Saint  Antoine’s  blood  was 
up,  and  the  blood  of  tyranny  and  domination  by  the  iron  hand  was  down — down 
on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  where  the  governor’s  body  lay — down  on  the 
sole  of  the  shoe  of  Madame  Defarge  where  she  had  trodden  on  the  body  to  steady 
it  for  mutilation.  “ Lower  the  lamp  yonder  ! ” cried  Saint  Antoine,  after  glaring 
round  for  a new  means  of  death  ; “ here  is  one  of  his  soldiers  to  be  left  on  guard  ! ” 
The  swinging  sentinel  was  posted,  and  the  sea  rushed  on. 

The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and  of  destructive  upheaving  of  wave 
against  wave,  whose  depths  were  yet  unfathomed  and  whose  forces  were  yet  un- 
known. The  remorseless  sea  of  turbuiently  swaying  shapes,  voices  of  vengeance, 
and  faces  hardened  in  the  furnaces  of  suffering  until  the  touch  of  pity  could  make 
no  mark  on  them. 

But,  in  the  ocean  of  faces  where  every  fierce  and  furious  expression  was  in  vivid 
life,  there  were  two  groups  of  faces — each  seven  in  number — so  fixedly  contrasting 
with  the  rest,  that  never  did  sea  roll  which  bore  more  memorable  wrecks  with  it. 
Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly  released  by  the  storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb, 
were  carried  high  overhead  : all  scared,  all  lost,  all  wondering  and  amazed,  as  if 
the  Last  Day  were  come,  and  those  who  rejoiced  around  them  were  lost  spirits. 
Other  seven  faces  there  were,  carried  higher,  seven  dead  faces,  whose  drooping 
eyelids  and  half-seen  eyes  awaited  the  Last  Day.  Impassive  faces,  yet  with  a 
suspended — not  an  abolished — expression  on  them  ; faces,  rather,  in  a fearful 
pause,  as  having  yet  to  raise  the  dropped  lids  of  the  eyes,  and  bear  witness  with 
the  bloodless  lips,  “Thou  didst  it  ! ” 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seven  gory  heads  on  pikes,  the  keys  of  the  accursed 
fortress  of  the  eight  strong  towers,  some  discovered  letters  and  other  memorials  of 
prisoners  of  old  time,  long  dead  of  broken  hearts, — such,  and  such-like,  the  loudly 
echoing  footsteps  of  Saint  Antoine  escort  through  the  Paris  streets  in  mid-July, 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-nine.  Now,  Heaven  defeat  the  fancy  of 
Lucie  Damay,  and  keep  these  feet  far  out  of  her  life ! For,  they  are  headlong, 
mad,  and  dangerous ; and  in  the  years  so  long  after  the  breaking  of  the  cask  at 
Defarge’s  wine-shop  door,  they  are  not  easily  purified  when  once  seined  red. 


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A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  SEA  STILL  RISES. 

Haggard  Saint  Antoine  had  had  only  one  exultant  week,  in  which  to  soften  his 
modicum  of  hard  and  bitter  bread  to  such  extent  as  he  could,  with  the  relish  of 
fraternal  embraces  and  congratulations,  when  Madame  Defarge  sat  at  her  counter, 
as  usual,  presiding  over  the  customers.  Madame  Defarge  wore  no  rose  in  her 
head,  for  the  great  brotherhood  of  Spies  had  become,  even  in  one  short  week, 
extremely  chary  of  trusting  themselves  to  the  saint’s  mercies.  The  lamps  across 
his  streets  had  a portentously  elastic  swing  with  them. 

Madame  Defarge,  with  her  arms  folded,  sat  in  the  morning  light  and  heat,  con- 
templating the  wine-shop  and  the  street.  In  both,  there  were  several  knots  of 
loungers,  squalid  and  miserable,  but  now  with  a manifest  sense  of  power  enthroned 
on  their  distress.  The  raggedest  nightcap,  awry  on  the  wretchedest  head,  had 
this  crooked  significance  in  it:  “I  know  how  hard  it  has  grown  for  me,  the 
wearer  of  this,  to  support  life  in  myself ; but  do  you  know  how  easy  it  has  grown 
for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to  destroy  life  in  you  ? ” Every  lean  bare  arm,  that 
had  been  without  work  before,  had  this  work  always  ready  for  it  now,  that  it  could 
strike.  The  fingers  of  the  knitting  women  were  vicious,  with  the  experience  that 
they  could  tear.  There  was  a change  in  the  appearance  of  Saint  Antoine  ; the 
image  had  been  hammering  into  this  for  hundreds  of  years,  and  the  last  finishing 
blows  had  told  mightily  on  the  expression. 

Madame  Defarge  sat  observing  it,  with  such  suppressed  approval  as  was  to  be 
desired  in  the  leader  of  the  Saint  Antoine  women.  One  of  her  sisterhood  knitted 
beside  her.  The  short,  rather  plump  wife  of  a starved  grocer,  and  the  mother  of 
two  children  withal,  this  lieutenant  had  already  earned  the  complimentary  name  of 
The  Vengeance. 

“ Hark  ! ” said  The  Vengeance.  “ Listen,  then  ! Who  comes  ? ” 

As  if  a train  of  powder  laid  from  the  outermost  bound  of  the  Saint  Antoine 
Quarter  to  the  wine-shop  door,  had  been  suddenly  fired,  a fast-spreading  murmur 
came  rushing  along. 

“ It  is  Defarge,”  said  madame.  “ Silence,  patriots  ! ” 

Defarge  came  in  breathless,  pulled  off  a red  cap  he  wore,  and  looked  around 
him  ! “ Listen,  everywhere  ! ” said  madame  again.  “ Listen  to  him  ! ” Defarge 

stood,  panting,  against  a background  of  eager  eyes  and  open  mouths,  formed  out- 
side the  door ; all  those  within  the  wine-shop  had  sprung  to  their  feet. 

“ Say  then,  my  husband.  What  is  it  ? ” 

“News  from  the  other  world  ! ” 

“ How,  then  ?”  cried  madame,  contemptuously.  “ The  other  world  ? ” 

“ Does  everybody  here  recall  old  Foulon,  who  told  the  famished  people  that 
they  might  eat  grass,  and  who  died,  and  went  to  Hell  ? ” 

“ Everybody!  ” from  all  throats. 

“ The  news  is  of  him.  He  is  among  us  ! ” 

“ Among  us  ! ” from  the  universal  throat  again.  “ And  dead  ? ” 

“Not  dead  ! He  feared  us  so  much — and  with  reason — that  he  caused  himself 
to  be  represented  as  dead,  and  had  a grand  mock-funeral.  But  they  have  found 
him  alive,  hiding  in  the  country,  and  have  brought  him  in.  I have  seen  him  but 
now,  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  a prisoner.  I have  said  that  he  had  reason 
to  fear  us.  Say  all ! Had  he  reason  ? ” 

Wretched  old  sinner  of  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten,  if  he  had  never 


Old  Foulon. 


I2Q 


known  it  yet,  he  would  have  known  it  in  his  heart  of  hearts  if  he  could  have  heaid 
the  answering  cry. 

A moment  of  profound  silence  followed.  Defarge  and  his  wife  looked  stead- 
fastly at  one  another.  The  Vengeance  stooped,  and  the  jar  of  a drum  was  heard 
as  she  moved  it  at  her  feet  behind  the  counter. 

“ Patriots  ! ” said  Defarge,  in  a determined  voice,  “ are  we  ready  ? ” 

Instantly  Madame  Defarge’s  knife  was  in  her  girdle ; the  drum  was  beating 
in  the  streets,  as  if  it  and  a drummer  had  flown  together  by  magic ; and 
The  Vengeance,  uttering  terrific  shrieks,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  her  head 
like  all  the  forty  Furies  at  once,  was  tearing  from  house  to  house,  rousing  the 
women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded  anger  with  which  they  looked  from 
windows,  caught  up  what  arms  they  had,  and  came  pouting  down  into  the  streets  ; 
but,  the  women  were  a sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From  such  household  occupa- 
tions as  their  bare  poverty  yielded,  from  their  children,  from  their  aged  and  their 
sick  crouching  on  the  bare  ground  famished  and  naked,  they  ran  out  with  stream- 
ing hair,  urging  one  another,  and  themselves,  to  madness  with  the  wildest  cries  and 
actions.  Villain  Foulon  taken,  my  sister!  Old  Foulon  taken,  my  mother  ! Mis- 
creant Foulon  taken,  my  daughter ! Then,  a score  of  others  ran  into  the  midst  of 
these,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair,  and  screaming,  Foulon  alive  ! 
Foulon  who  told  the  starving  people  they  might  eat  grass  ! Foulon  who  told  my 
old  father  that  he  might  eat  grass,  when  I had  no  bread  to  give  him  ! Foulon  who 
told  my  baby  it  might  suck  grass,  when  these  breasts  were  dry  with  want ! O 
mother  of  God,  this  Foulon  ! O Heaven,  our  suffering  ! Hear  me,  my  dead  baby 
and  my  withered  father : I swear  on  my  knees,  on  these  stones,  to  avenge  you  on 
Foulon  ! Husbands,  and  brothers,  and  young  men,  Give  us  the  blood  of  Foulon, 
Give  us  the  head  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  heart  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  body  and 
soul  of  Foulon,  Rend  Foulon  to  pieces,  and  dig  him  into  the  ground,  that  grass 
may  grow  from  him  ! With  these  cries,  numbers  of  the  women,  lashed  into  blind 
frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking  and  tearing  at  their  own  friends  until  they  dropped 
into  a passionate  swoon,  and  were  only  saved  by  the  men  belonging  to  them  from 
being  trampled  under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a moment  was  lost ; not  a moment  ! This  Foulon  was  at  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  and  might  be  loosed.  Never,  if  Saint  Antoine  knew  his  own  suf- 
ferings, insults,  and  wrongs  ! Armed  men  and  women  flocked  out  of  the  Quarter 
so  fast,  and  drew  even  these  last  dregs  after  them  with  such  a force  of  suction,  that 
within  a quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  not  a human  creature  in  Saint  Antoine’s 
bosom  but  a few  old  crones  and  the  wailing  children. 

No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking  the  Hall  of  Examination  where  this 
old  man,  ugly  and  wicked,  was,  and  overflowing  into  the  adjacent  open  space  and 
streets.  The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  The  Vengeance,  and  Jacques  Three, 
were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  great  distance  from  him  in  the  Hall. 

“ See!”  cried  madame,  pointing  with  her  knife.  “ See  the  old  villain  bound 
with  ropes.  That  was  well  done  to  tie  a bunch  of  grass  upon  his  back.  Ha,  ha ! 
That  was  well  done.  Let  him  eat  it  now !”  Madame  put  her  knife  under  her 
arm,  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a play. 

The  people  immediate  y behind  Madame  Defarge,  explaining  the  cause  of  her 
satisfaction  to  those  behind  them,  and  those  again  explaining  to  others,  and  those 
to  others,  the  neighbouring  streets  resounded  wi  :h  the  clapping  of  hands.  Simi- 
larly, during  two  or  three  hours  of  drawl,  and  the  winnowing  of  many  bushels  of 
words,  Madame  Defarge’s  frequent  expressions  of  impatience  were  taken  up,  with 
marvellous  quickness,  at  a distance  : the  more  readily,  because  certain  men  who 
had  by  some  wonderful  exercise  of  agility  climbed  up  the  external  architecture  te 

$ 


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A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


look  in  from  the  windows,  knew  Madame  Defarge  well,  and  acted  as  a telegraph 
between  her  and  the  crowd  outside  the  building. 

At  length  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck  a kindly  ray  as  of  hope  or  protection, 
directly  down  upon  the  old  prisoner’s  head.  The  favour  was  too  much  to  bear  ; in 
an  instant  the  bander  of  duT  and  chaff  that  had  stood  surprisingly  long,  went  to 
the  winds,  and  Saint  A ntoine  had  got  him  ! 

It  was  known  direct!),  to  the  furthest  confines  of  the  crowd.  Defarge  had  but 
sprung  over  a railing  and  a table,  and  folded  the  miserable  wretch  in  a deadly 
embrace — Madame  Defarge  had  but  followed  and  turned  her  hand  in  one  of  the 
ropes  with  which  he  was  tied — The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  were  not  yet  up 
with  them,  and  the  men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet  swooped  into  the  Hall,  like 
birds  of  prey  from  their  high  perches — when  the  cry  seemed  to  go  up,  all  over  the 
city,  “Bring  him  out ! Bring  him  to  the  lamp  !” 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps  of  the  building ; now,  on  his  knees; 
now,  on  his  feet ; now,  on  his  back;  dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  thebuncht's 
of  grass  and  straw  that  were  thrust  into  his  face  by  hundreds  of  hands  ; torn,  bruised, 
panting,  bleeding,  yet  always  entreating  and  beseeching  for  mercy  ; now  full  of 
vehement  agony  of  action,  with  a small  clear  space  about  him  as  the  people  drew 
one  another  back  that  they  might  see  ; now,  a log  of  dead  wood  drawn  through  a 
forest  of  legs  ; he  was  hauled  to  the  nearest  street  corner  where  one  of  the  fatal 
lamps  swung,  and  there  Madame  Defarge  let  him  go — as  a cat  might  have  done 
to  a mouse — and  silently  and  composedly  looked  at  him  while  they  made  ready, 
and  while  he  besought  her : the  women  passionately  screeching  at  him  all  the 
time,  and  the  men  sternly  calling  out  to  have  him  killed  with  grass  in  his  mouth. 
Once,  he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him  shrieking ; twice, 
he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him  shrieking  ; then,  the 
rope  was  merciful,  and  held  him,  and  his  head  was  soon  upon  a pike,  with  grass 
enough  in  the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine  to  dance  at  the  sight  of. 

Nor  was  this  the  end  of  the  day’s  bad  work,  for  Saint  Antoine  so  shouted  and 
danced  his  angry  blood  up,  that  it  boiled  again,  on  hearing  when  the  day  closed  in 
that  the  son-in-law  of  the  despatched,  another  of  the  people’s  enemies  and  insulters, 
was  coming  into  Paris  under  a guard  five  hundred  strong,  in  cavalry  alone.  Saint 
Antoine  wrote  his  crimes  on  flaring  sheets  of  paper,  seized  him — would  have  tom 
him  out  of  the  breast  of  an  army  to  bear  Foulon  company — set  his  head  and  heart 
on  pikes,  and  carried  the  three  spoils  of  the  day,  in  Wolf-procession  through  the 
streets. 

Not  before  dark  night  did  the  men  and  women  come  back  to  the  children,  wail- 
ing and  breadless.  Then,  the  miserable  bakers’  shops  were  beset  by  long  files  of 
them,  patiently  waiting  to  buy  bad  bread ; and  -while  they  waited  with  stomachs 
faint  and  empty,  they  beguiled  the  time  by  embracing  one  another  on  the  triumphs 
of  the  day,  and  achieving  them  again  in  gossip.  Gradually,  these  strings  of  ragged 
people  shortened  and  frayed  away  ; and  then  poor  lights  began  to  shine  in  high 
windows,  and  slender  fires  were  made  in  the  streets,  at  which  neighbours  cooked 
in  common,  afterwards  supping  at  their  doors. 

Scanty  and  insufficient  suppers  those,  and  innocent  of  meat,  as  of  most  other 
sauce  to  wretched  bread.  Yet,  human  fellowship  infused  some  nourishment  into 
the  flinty  viands,  and  struck  some  sparks  of  cheerfulness  out  of  them.  Fathers  and 
mothers  who  had  had  their  full  share  in  the  worst  of  the  day,  played  gently  with 
their  meagre  children  ; and  lovers,  with  such  a world  around  them  and  before  them, 
loved  and  hoped. 

It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge’s  wine-shop  parted  with  its  last  knot  of 
customers,  and  Mons  eur  Defarge  said  to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while 
fastening  the  door ; 


Almost  come. 


“At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear  !” 

“ Eli  well  !' ’ returned  madame.  “ Almost.” 

Saint  Antoine  slept,  the  Defarges  slept : even  The  Vengeance  slept  with  hei 
starved  grocer,  and  the  drum  was  at  rest.  The  drum’s  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint 
Antoine  that  blood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Vengeance,  as  custodian  ol 
the  drum,  could  have  wakened  him  up  and  had  the  same  speech  out  of  him  as 
before  the  Bastille  fell,  or  old  Foulon  was  seized  ; not  so  with  the  hoarse  tones  of 
the  men  and  women  in  Saint  Antoine’s  bosom* 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FIRE  RISES. 

There  was  a change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain  fell,  and  where  the  mendei 
of  roads  went  forth  daily  to  hammer  out  of  the  stones  on  the  highway  such  mor- 
sels of  bread  as  might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  ignorant  soul  and  his  poor 
reduced  body  together.  The  prison  on  the  crag  was  not  so  dominant  as  of  yore  ; 
there  were  soldiers  to  guard  it,  but  not  many  ; there  were  officers  to  guard  the 
soldiers,  but  not  one  of  them  knew  what  his  men  would  do — beyond  this  : that  it 
would  probably  not  be  what  he  was  ordered. 

Far  and  wide  lay  a ruined  country,  yielding  nothing  but  desolation.  Every  green 
leaf,  every  blade  of  grass  and  blade  of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the 
miserable  people.  Everything  was  bowed  down,  dejected,  oppressed,  and  broken. 
Habitations,  fences,  domesticated  animals,  men,  women,  children,  and  the  soil  that 
bore  them — all  worn  out. 

Monseigneur  (often  a most  worthy  individual  gentleman)  was  a national  blessing, 
gave  a chivalrous  tone  to  things,  was  a polite  example  of  luxurious  and  shining 
life,  and  a great  deal  more  to  equal  purpose ; nevertheless,  Monseigneur  as  a class 
had,  somehow  or  other,  brought  things  to  this.  Strange  that  Creation,  designed 
expressly  for  Monseigneur,  should  be  so  soon  wrung  dry  and  squeezed  out ! There 
must  be  something  short-sighted  in  the  eternal  arrangements,  surely ! Thus  it 
was,  however ; and  the  last  drop  of  blood  having  been  extracted  from  the  flints, 
and  the  last  screw  of  the  rack  having  been  turned  so  often  that  its  purchase  crum- 
bled, and  it  now  turned  and  turned  with  nothing  to  bite,  Monseigneur  began  to 
run  away  from  a phenomenon  so  low  and  unaccountable. 

But,  this  was  not  the  change  on  the  village,  and  on  many  a village  like  it.  For 
scores  of  years  gone  by,  Monseigneur  had  squeezed  it  and  wrung  it,  and  had  sel- 
dom graced  it  with  his  presence  except  for  the  pleasures  of  the  chase — now,  found 
in  hunting  the  people  ; now,  found  in  hunting  the  beasts,  for  whose  preservation 
Monseigneur  made  edifying  spaces  of  barbarous  and  barren  wilderness.  No.  The 
change  consisted  in  the  appearance  of  strange  faces  of  low  caste,  rather  ttun  in 
the  disappearance  of  the  high-caste,  chiseled,  and  otherwise  beatified  and  beatify- 
ing features  of  Monseigneur. 

For,  in  these  times,  as  the  mender  of  roads  worked,  solitary,  in  the  dust,  not 
often  troubling  himself  to  reflect  that  dust  he  was  and  to  dust  he  must  return,  being 
for  the  most  part  too  much  occupied  in  thinking  how  little  he  had  for  supper  and 
how  much  more  he  would  eat  if  he  had  it — in  these  times,  as  he  raised  his  eyes 
from  his  lonely  labour,  and  viewed  the  prospect,  he  would  see  some  rough  figure 
approaching  on  foot,  the  like  of  which  was  once  a rarity  in  those  parts,  but  was 
now  a frequent  presence.  As  it  advanced,  the  mender  of  roads  would  discern 
without  s?irprise,  that  it  was  a shaggy-haired  man,  of  almost  barbarian  aspect,  tall, 


3* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


in  wooden  shoes  that  were  clumsy  even  to  the  eyes  of  a mender  of  roads,  grim, 
rough,  swart,  steeped  in  the  mud  and  dust  of  many  highways,  dank  with  the 
marshy  moisture  of  many  low  grounds,  sprinkled  with  the  thorns  and  leaves  and 
moss  of  many  byways  through  woods. 

Such  a man  came  upon  him,  like  a ghost,  at  noon  in  the  July  weather,  as  he  sat 
on  his  heap  of  stones  under  a bank,  taking  such  shelter  as  he  could  get  from  a 
shower  of  hail. 

The  man  looked  at  him,  looked  at  the  village  in  the  hollow,  at  the  mill,  and  at 
the  prison  on  the  crag  When  he  had  identified  these  objects  in  what  benighted 
mind  he  had,  he  said,  in  a dialect  that  was  just  intelligible  : 

“ How  goes  it,  Jacques  ?” 
u All  well,  Jacques.” 

•*  Touch  then !” 

They  joined  hands,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  the  heap  of  stones. 

“ No  dinner  ?” 

“Nothing  but  supper  now,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  a hungry  face. 

It  is  the  fashion,”  growled  the  man.  “ I meet  no  dinner  anywhere.” 

He  took  out  a blackened  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  with  flint  and  steel,  pulled  at  it 
until  it  was  in  a bright  glow  : then,  suddenly  held  it  from  him  and  dropped  some- 
thing into  it  from  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  that  blazed  and  went  out  in  a puff 
of  smoke. 

“ Touch  then.”  It  was  the  turn  of  the  mender  of  roads  to  say  it  this  time,  after 
observing  these  operations.  They  again  joined  hands. 

“ To-night  ?”  said  the  mender  of  roads. 

“ To-night,”  said  the  man,  putting  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

“ Where  ?” 

“ Here.” 

He  and  the  mender  of  roads  sat  on  the  heap  of  stones  looking  silently  at  one 
Another,  with  the  hail  driving  in  between  them  like  a pigmy  charge  of  bayonets, 
until  the  sky  began  to  clear  over  the  village. 

“ Show  me  !”  said  the  traveller  then,  moving  to  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

“ See  ! ” returned  the  mender  of  roads,  with  extended  finger.  “ You  go  down 

here,  and  straight  through  the  street,  and  past  the  fountain ” 

“ To  the  Devil  with  all  that !”  interrupted  the  other,  rolling  his  eye  over  the 
landscape.  “ I go  through  no  streets  and  past  no  fountains.  Well  ?” 

“ Well ! About  two  leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  that  hill  above  the  village.” 
“ Good.  When  do  you  cease  to  work  ?” 

“ At  sunset.” 

“Will  you  wake  me,  before  departing?  I have  walked  two  nights  without 
resting.  Let  me  finish  my  pipe,  and  I shall  sleep  like  a child.  Will  you 
wake  me  ?” 

“ Surely.” 

The  wayfarer  smoked  his  pipe  out,  put  it  in  his  breast,  slipped  off  his  great 
wooden  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  his  back  on  the  heap  of  stones.  He  was  fast 
asleep  directly. 

As  the  road-irender  plied  his  dusty  labour,  and  the  hail-clouds,  rolling  away, 
levealcd  blight  bars  and  streaks  of  sky  which  were  responded  to  by  silver  gieams 
upon  the  landscape,  the  little  man  (who  wore  a red  cap  now,  in  place  of  his  blue 
one)  seemed  fascinated  by  the  figure  on  the  heap  of  stones.  His  eyes  were  so 
often  turned  towards  it,  that  he  used  his  tools  mechanically,  and,  one  would  have 
said,  to  very  poor  account.  The  bronze  face,  the  shaggy  black  hair  and  beard, 
the  coarse  woollen  red  cap,  the  rough  medley  dress  of  home-spun  stuff  and  hairy 
vkins  of  beasts,  the  powe2f.1l  frame  attenuated  by  spare  living,  and  the  sullen  and 


The  footsore  Traveller.  13  J 

iesperate  compression  oi  ihe  lips  in  sleep,  inspired  the  mender  of  roads  with  awe. 
The  traveller  had  travelled  far,  and  his  feet  were  footsore,  and  his  ankles  chafed 
and  bleeding ; his  great  shoes,  stuffed  with  leaves  and  grass,  had  been  heavy  to 
drag  over  the  many  long  leagues,  and  his  clothes  were  chafed  into  holes,  as  he 
himself  was  into  sores.  Stooping  down  beside  him,  the  road-mender  tried  to  get 
a peep  at  secret  weapons  in  his  breast  or  where  not ; but,  in  vain,  for  he  slept  with 
his  arms  crossed  upon  him,  and  set  as  resolutely  as  his  lips.  Fortified  towns  with 
their  stockades,  guard-houses,  gates,  trenches,  and  drawbridges,  seemed  to  the 
mender  of  roads,  to  be  so  much  air  as  against  this  figure.  And  when  he  lifted  his 
eyes  from  it  to  the  horizon  and  looked  around,  he  saw  in  his  small  fancy  similar 
figures,  stopped  by  no  obstacle,  tending  to  centres  all  over  France. 

The  man  slept  on,  indifferent  to  showers  of  hail  and  intervals  of  brightness,  to 
sunshine  on  his  face  and  shadow,  to  the  pattering  lumps  of  dull  ice  on  his  body 
and  the  diamonds  into  which  the  sun  changed  them,  until  the  sun  was  low  in  the 
west,  and  the  sky  was  glowing.  Then,  the  mender  of  roads  having  got  his  tools 
together  and  all  things  ready  to  go  down  into  the  village,  roused  him, 

“Good!”  said  the  sleeper,  rising  on  his  elbow.  “Two  leagues  beyond  the 
summit  of  the  hill  ?” 

“About.” 

“About.  Good!” 

The  mender  of  roads  went  home,  with  the  dust  going  on  before  him  according 
to  the  set  of  the  wind,  and  was  soon  at  the  fountain,  squeezing  himself  in  among 
the  lean  kine  brought  there  to  drink,  and  appearing  even  to  wdiisper  to  them  in 
his  whispering  to  all  the  village.  When  the  village  had  taken  its  poor  supper,  it 
did  not  creep  to  bed,  as  it  usually  did,  but  came  out  of  doors  again,  and  remained 
there.  A curious  contagion  of  whispering  was  upon  it,  and  also,  when  it  gathered 
together  at  the  fountain  in  the  dark,  another  curious  contagion  of  looking  expec- 
tantly at  the  sky  in  one  direction  only.  Monsieur  Gabelle,  chief  functionary  of 
the  place,  became  uneasy ; went  out  on  his  house-top  alone,  and  looked  in  that 
direction  too  ; glanced  down  from  behind  his  chimneys  at  the  darkening  faces  by 
the  fountain  below,  and  sent  word  to  the  sacristan  who  kept  the  keys  of  the  church, 
that  there  might  be  need  to  ring  the  tocsin  by-and-by. 

The  night  deepened.  The  trees  environing  the  old  chateau,  keeping  its  solitary 
state  apart,  moved  in  a rising  wind,  as  though  they  threatened  the  pile  of  building 
massive  and  dark  in  the  gloom.  Up  the  two  terrace  flights  of  steps  the  rain  ran 
wildly,  and  beat  at  the  great  door,  like  a swift  messenger  rousing  those  within  ; 
uneasy  rushes  of  wind  went  through  the  hall,  among  the  old  spears  and  knives, 
and  passed  lamenting  up  the  stairs,  and  shook  the  curtains  of  the  bed  where  the 
last  Marquis  had  slept.  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  through  the  woods,  four 
heavy-treading,  unkempt  figures  crushed  the  high  grass  and  cracked  the  branches, 
striding  on  cautiously  to  come  together  in  the  court-yard.  Four  lights  broke  out 
there,  and  moved  away  in  different  directions,  and  all  was  black  again. 

But,  not  for  long.  Presently,  the  chateau  began  to  make  itself  strangely  visible 
by  some  light  of  its  own,  as  though  it  were  growing  luminous.  Then,  a flickering 
streak  played  behind  the  architecture  of  the  front,  picking  out  transparent  places, 
and  showing  where  balustrades,  arches,  and  windows  were.  Then  it  soared  higher, 
and  grew  broader  and  brighter.  Soon,  from  a score  of  the  great  windows,  flames 
burst  forth,  and  the  stone  faces  awakened,  stared  out  of  fire. 

A faint  murmur  arose  about  the  house  from  the  few  people  who  were  left  there, 
and  there  was  a saddling  of  a horse  and  riding  away.  There  was  spurring  and 
splashing  through  the  darkness,  and  bridle  was  drawn  in  the  space  by  the  village 
fountain,  and  the  horse  in  a foam  stood  at  Monsieur  Gabelle’s  door.  “ Help, 
Gabelle  ! Help,  every  one  ! ” The  tocsin  rang  impatiently,  but  other  help  (if  that 


*34 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


were  any)  there  was  none.  The  mender  of  roads,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty 
particular  friends,  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the  fountain,  looking  at  the  pillar 
of  fire  in  the  sky.  “ It  must  be  forty  feet  high,”  said  they,  grimly  ; and  never 
moved. 

The  rider  from  the  chateau,  and  the  horse  in  a foam,  clattered  away  through  the 
village,  and  galloped  up  the  stony  steep,  to  the  prison  on  the  crag.  At  the  gate, 
a group  of  officers  were  looking  at  the  fire  ; removed  from  them,  a group  of 
soldiers.  “Help,  gentlemen-officers  ! The  chateau  is  on  fire  ; valuable  objects 
may  be  saved  from  the  flames  by  timely  aid  ! Help,  help  ! ” The  officers  looked 
towards  the  soldiers  who  looked  at  the  fire  ; gave  no  orders  ; and  answered,  with 
shrugs  and  biting  of  lips,  “ It  must  burn.” 

As  the  rider  rattled  down  the  hill  again  and  through  the  street,  the  village  was 
illuminating.  The  mender  of  roads,  and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular 
friends,  inspired  as  one  man  and  woman  by  the  idea  of  lighting  up,  had  darted  into 
their  houses,  and  were  putting  candles  in  every  dull  little  pane  of  glass.  The  general 
scarcity  of  everything,  occasioned  candles  to  be  borrowed  in  a rather  peremptory 
manner  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  ; and  in  a moment  of  reluctance  and  hesitation  on 
that  functionary’s  part,  the  mender  of  roads,  once  so  submissive  to  authority,  had 
remarked  that  carriages  were  good  to  make  bonfires  with,  and  that  post-horses 
would  roast. 

The  chateau  was  left  to  itself  to  flame  and  burn.  In  the  roaring  and  raging  of 
the  conflagration,  a red-hot  wind,  driving  straight  from  the  infernal  regions,  seemed 
to  be  blowing  the  edifice  away.  With  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  blaze,  the  stone 
faces  showed  as  if  they  were  in  torment.  When  great  masses  of  stone  and  timber 
fell,  the  face  with  the  two  dints  in  the  nose  became  obscured  : anon  struggled  out 
of  the  smoke  again,  as  if  it  were  the  face  of  the  cruel  Marquis,  burning  at  the 
stake  and  contending  with  the  fire. 

The  chateau  burned  ; the  nearest  trees,  laid  hold  of  by  the  fire,  scorched  and 
shrivelled. ; trees  at  a distance,  fired  by  the  four  fierce  figures,  begirt  the  blazing 
edifice  with  a new  forest  of  smoke.  Molten  lead  and  iron  boiled  in  the  marble 
basin  of  the  fountain ; the  water  ran  dry ; the  extinguisher  tops  of  the  towers 
vanished  like  ice  before  the  heat,  and  trickled  down  into  four  rugged  wells  of 
flame.  Great  rents  and  splits  branched  out  in  the  solid  walls,  like  crystallisa- 
tion ; stupified  birds  wheeled  about  and  dropped  into  the  furnace ; four  fierce 
figures  trudged  away,  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  along  the  night-enshrouded 
roads,  guided  by  the  beacon  they  had  lighted,  towards  their  next  destination.  The 
illuminated  village  had  seized  hold  of  the  tocsin,  and,  abolishing  the  lawful  ringer, 
rang  for  joy. 

Not  only  that;  but  the  village,  light-headed  with  famine,  fire,  and  bell-ringing, 
and  bethinking  itself  that  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  to  do  with  the  collection  of  rent 
and  taxes — though  it  was  but  a small  instalment  of  taxes,  and  no  rent  at  all,  that 
Gabelle  had  got  in  those  latter  days — became  impatient  for  an  interview  with  him, 
and,  surrounding  his  house,  summoned  him  to  come  forth  for  personal  conference. 
Whereupon,  Monsieur  Gabelle  did  heavily  bar  his  door,  and  retire  to  hold  counsel 
with  himself.  The  result  of  that  conference  was,  that  Gabelle  again  withdrew 
himself  to  his  house-top  behind  his  stack  of  chimneys;  this  time  resolved,  if  his 
door  were  broken  in  (he  was  a small  Southern  man  of  retaliative  temperament), 
to  pitch  himself  head  foremost  over  the  parapet,  and  crush  a man  or  two  below. 

Probably,  Monsieur  Gabelle  passed  a long  night  up  there,  with  the  distant 
chateau  for  fire  and  candle,  and  the  beating  at  his  door,  combined  with  the  joy- 
ringing, for  music ; not  to  mention  his  having  an  ill-omened  lamp  slung  across  the 
road  before  his  posting-house  gate,  which  the  village  showed  a lively  inclination  to 
displace  in  his  favour.  A trying  suspense,  to  be  passing  a whole  summer  night 


Fire . 


1 35 


on  the  brink  of  the  black  ocean,  ready  to  take  that  plunge  into  it  upon  which 
Monsieur  Gabelle  had  resolved  ! But,  the  friendly  dawn  appearing  at  last,  and  the 
rush-candles  of  the  village  guttering  out,  the  people  happily  dispersed,  and 
Monsieur  Gabelle  came  down  bringing  his  life  with  him  for  that  while. 

Within  a hundred  miles,  and  in  the  light  of  other  fires,  there  were  other  func- 
tionaries less  fortunate,  that  night  and  other  nights,  whom  the  rising  sun  found 
hanging  across  once-peaceful  streets,  where  they  had  been  bom  and  bred ; also, 
there  were  other  villagers  and  townspeople  less  fortunate  than  the  mender  of  roads 
and  his  fellows,  upon  whom  the  functionaries  and  soldiery  turned  with  success, 
and  whom  they  strung  up  in  their  turn.  But,  the  fierce  figures  were  steadily' 
wending  East,  West,  North,  and  South,  be  that  as  it  would ; and  whosoever 
hung,  fire  burned.  The  altitude  of  the  gallows  that  would  turn  to  water  and 
quench  it,  no  functionary,  by  any  stretch  of  mathematics,  was  able  to  calculate 
successfully. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 

In  such  risings  of  fire  and  risings  of  sea — the  firm  earth  shaken  by  the  rushes 
of  an  angry  ocean  which  had  now  no  ebb,  but  was  always  on  the  flow,  higher  and 
higher,  to  the  terror  and  wonder  of  the  beholders  on  the  shore — three  years  of 
tempest  were  consumed.  Three  more  birthdays  of  little  Lucie  had  been  woven  by 
the  golden  thread  into  the  peaceful  tissue  of  the  life  of  her  home. 

Many  a night  and  many  a day  had  its  inmates  listened  to  the  echoes  in  the 
corner,  with  hearts  that  failed  them  when  they  heard  the  thronging  feet.  For,  the 
footsteps  had  become  to  their  minds  as  the  footsteps  of  a people,  tumultuous  under 
a red  flag  and  with  their  country  declared  in  danger,  changed  into  wild  beasts,  by 
terrible  enchantment  long  persisted  in. 

Monseigneur,  as  a class,  had  dissociated  himself  from  the  phenomenon  of  his 
not  being  appreciated : of  his  being  so  little  wanted  in  France,  as  to  incur  con- 
siderable danger  of  receiving  his  dismissal  from  it,  and  this  life  together.  Like 
the  fabled  rustic  who  raised  the  Devil  with  infinite  pains,  and  was  so  terrified  at 
the  sight  of  him  that  he  could  ask  the  Enemy  no  question,  but  immediately  fled  ; 
so,  Monseigneur,  after  boldly  reading  the  Lord’s  Prayer  backwards  for  a great 
number  of  years,  and  performing  many  other  potent  spells  for  compelling  the  Evil 
One,  no  sooner  beheld  him  in  his  terrors  than  he  took  to  his  noble  heels. 

The  shining  Bull’s  Eye  of  the  Court  was  gone,  or  it  would  have  Deen  the  mark 
for  a hurricane  of  national  bullets.  It  had  never  been  a good  eye  to  see  with — 
bad  long  had  the  mote  in  it  of  Lucifer’s  pride,  Sardanapalus’s  luxury,  and  a 
mole’s  blindness — but  it  had  dropped  out  and  was  gone.  The  Court,  from  that 
exclusive  inner  circle  to  its  outermost  rotten  ring  of  intrigue,  corruption,  and  dis- 
simulation, was  all  gone  together.  Royalty  was  gone ; had  been  besieged  in  its 
Palace  and  “ suspended,”  when  the  last  tidings  came  over. 

The  August  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two  was  come, 
and  Monseigneur  was  by  this  time  scattered  far  and  wide. 

As  was  natural,  the  head-quarters  and  great  gathering-place  of  Monseigneur,  in 
London,  was  Tellson’s  Bank.  Spirits  are  supposed  to  haunt  the  places  where 
their  bodies  most  resorted,  and  Monseigneur  without  a guinea  haunted  the  spot 
where  his  guineas  used  to  be.  Moreover,  it  was  the  spot  to  which  such  French 
intelligence  as  was  most  to  be  relied  upon,  came  quickest.  Again  : Tellson’s  was 
a munificent  hoaise*  and  extended  great  liberality  to  old  customers  who  had  fallen 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


<36 

from  their  high  estate.  Again  : those  nobles  who  had  seen  the  coming  storm  in 
time,  and  anticipating  plunder  or  confiscation,  had  made  provident  remittances  to 
Tellson’s,  were  always  to  be  heard  of  there  by  their  needy  brethren.  To  which  it 
must  be  added  that  every  new  comer  from  France  reported  himself  and  his  tidings 
at  Tellson’s,  almost  as  a matter  of  course.  For  such  variety  of  reasons,  Tellson’s 
was  at  that  time,  as  to  French  intelligence,  a kind  of  High  Exchange  ; and  this 
was  so  well  known  to  the  public,  and  the  inquiries  made  there  were  in  consequence 
so  numerous,  that  Tellson’s  sometimes  wrote  the  latest  news  out  in  a line  or  so  and 
posted  it  in  the  Bank  windows,  for  all  who  ran  through  Temple  Bar  to  read. 

On  a steaming,  misty  afternoon,  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  his  desk,  and  Charles  Damay 
stood  leaning  on  it,  talking  with  him  in  a low  voice.  The  penitential  den  once 
set  apart  for  interviews  with  the  House,  was  now  the  news-Exchange,  and  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  within  half  an  hour  or  so  of  the  time  of  closing. 

“ But,  although  you  are  the  youngest  man  that  ever  lived,”  said  Charles  Darnay, 
rather  hesitating,  “ I must  still  suggest  to  you ” 

44  I understand.  That  I am  too  old  ?”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

44  Unsettled  weather,  a long  journey,  uncertain  means  of  travelling,  a disor- 
ganised country,  a city  that  may  not  be  even’safe  for  you.” 

“ My  dear  Charles,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  cheerful  confidence,  “you  touch  some 
of  the  reasons  for  my  going : not  for  my  staying  away.  It  is  safe  enough  for  me ; 
nobody  will  care  to  interfere  with  an  old  fellow  of  hard  upon  fourscore  when  there 
are  so  many  people  there  much  better  worth  interfering  with.  As  to  its  being  a 
disorganised  city,  if  it  were  not  a disorganised  city  there  would  be  no  occasion  to 
send  somebody  from  our  House  here  to  our  House  there,  who  knows  the  city  and 
the  business,  of  old,  and  is  in  Tellson’s  confidence.  As  to  the  uncertain  travelling, 
the  long  journey,  and  the  winter  weather,  if  I were  not  prepared  to  submit  myself 
to  a few  inconveniences  for  the  sake  of  Tellson’s,  after  all  these  years,  who  ought 
to  be?” 

“ I wish  I were  going  myself,”  said  Charles  Damay,  somewhat  restlessly,  and 
like  one  thinking  aloud. 

44  Indeed  ! You  are  a pretty  fellow  to  object  and  advise  !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 
44  You  wish  you  were  going  yourself?  And  you  a Frenchman  bom  ? You  are  a 
wise  counsellor.” 

44  My  dear  Mr.  Lorry,  it  is  because  I am  a Frenchman  bom,  that  the  thought 
(which  I did  not  mean  to  utter  here,  however)  has  passed  through  my  mind  often. 
One  cannot  help  thinking,  having  had  some  sympathy  for  the  miserable  people, 
and  having  abandoned  something  to  them,”  he  spoke  here  in  his  former  thoughtful 
manner,  44  that  one  might  be  listened  to,  and  might  have  the  power  to  persuade  to 
some  restraint.  Only  last  night,  after  you  had  left  us,  when  I was  talking  to 
Lucie ” 

44  When  you  were  talking  to  Lucie,”  Mr.  Lorry  repeated.  44  Yes.  I wondei 
you  are  not  ashamed  to  mention  the  name  of  Lucie ! Wishing  you  were  going  to 
France  at  this  time  of  day  ! ” 

44  However,  I am  not  going,”  said  Charles  Darnay,  with  a smile.  44  It  is  more 
to  the  purpose  that  you  say  you  are.” 

44  And  I am,  in  plain  reality.  The  truth  is,  my  dear  Charles,”  Mr.  Lorry 
glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  lowered  his  voice, 44  you  can  have  no  conception 
of  the  difficulty  with  which  our  business  is  transacted,  and  of  the  peril  in  which  our 
books  and  papers  over  yonder  are  involved.  The  Lord  above  knows  what  the 
compromising  consequences  would  be  to  numbers  of  people,  if  some  of  our  docu- 
ments were  seized  or  destroyed ; and  they  might  be,  at  any  time,  you  know,  for 
who  can  say  that  Paris  is  not  set  a-fire  to-day,  or  sacked  to-morrow ! Now,  a 
judicious  selection  from  these  with  the  least  possible  delay,  a^d  the  burying  oi 


Mr.  Lorry  lays  his  flans. 


1 37 


them,  or  otherwise  getting  of  them  out  of  harm’s  way,  is  within  the  power  (without 
loss  of  precious  time)  of  scarcely  any  one  but  myself,  if  any  one.  And  shall  I hang 
back,  when  Tellson’s  knows  this  and  says  this — Tellson’s,  whose  bread  I have 
eaten  these  sixty  years — because  I am  a little  stiff  about  the  joints  ? Why,  I am  a 
boy,  sir,  to  half  a dozen  old  codgers  here !” 

“ How  I admire  the  gallantry  of  your  youthful  spirit,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ Tut ! Nonsense,  sir! — And,  my  dear  Charles,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  glancing  at 
the  House  again,  “ you  are  to  remember,  that  getting  things  out  of  Paris  at  this 
present  time,  no  matter  what  things,  is  next  to  an  impossibility.  Papers  and 
precious  matters  were  this  very  day  brought  to  us  here  (I  speak  in  strict  confidence ; 
it  is  not  business-like  to  whisper  it,  even  to  you),  by  the  strangest  bearers  you  can 
imagine,  every  one  of  whom  had  his  head  hanging  on  by  a single  hair  as  he  passed 
the  Barriers.  At  another  time,  our  parcels  would  come  and  go,  as  easily  as  r* 
business-like  Old  England  ; but  now,  everything  is  stopped.” 

“And  do  you  really  go  to-night  ?” 

“ I really  go  to-night,  for  the  case  has  become  too  pressing  to  admit  of  delay.” 
“And  do  you  take  no  one  with  you  ?” 

“ All  sorts  of  people  have  been  proposed  to  me,  but  I will  have  nothing  to  say 
to  any  of  them.  I intend  to  take  Jerry.  Jerry  has  been  my  body-guard  on  Sunday 
nights  for  a long  time  past,  and  I am  used  to  him.  Nobody  will  suspect  Jerry  of 
being  anything  but  an  English  bull-dog,  or  of  having  any  design  in  his  head  but 
to  fly  at  any  body  who  touches  his  master.” 

“ I must  say  again  that  I heartily  admire  your  gallantry  and  youthfulness.” 

“ I must  say  again,  nonsense,  nonsense  ! When  I have  executed  this  little 
commission,  I shall,  perhaps,  accept  Tellson’s  proposal  to  retire  and  live  at  my 
ease.  Time  enough,  then,  to  think  about  growing  old.” 

This  dialogue  had  taken  place  at  Mr.  Lorry’s  usual  desk,  with  Monseigneur 
swarming  within  a yard  or  two  of  it,  boastful  of  what  he  would  do  to  avenge  him- 
self on  the  rascal-people  before  long.  It  was  too  much  the  way  of  Monseigneur 
under  his  reverses  as  a refugee,  and  it  was  much  too  much  the  way  of  native  British 
orthodoxy,  to  talk  of  this  terrible  Revolution  as  if  it  were  the  one  only  harvest  ever 
known  under  the  skies  that  had  not  been  sown — as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  done, 
or  omitted  to  be  done,  that  had  led  to  it — as  if  observers  of  the  wretched  millions 
in  France,  and  of  the  misused  and  perverted  resources  that  should  have  made  them 
prosperous,  had  not  seen  it  inevitably  coming,  years  before,  and  had  not  in  plain 
words  recorded  what  they  saw.  Such  vapouring,  combined  with  the  extravagant 
plots  of  Monseigneur  for  the  restoration  of  a state  of  things  that  had  utterly 
exhausted  itself,  and  worn  out  Heaven  and  earth  as  well  as  itself,  was  hard  to  be 
endured  without  some  remonstrance  by  any  sane  man  who  knew  the  truth.  And 
it  was  such  vapouring  all  about  his  ears,  like  a troublesome  confusion  of  blood  in 
his  own  head,  added  to  a latent  uneasiness  in  his  mind,  which  had  already  made 
Charles  Darnay  restless,  and  which  still  kept  him  so. 

Among  the  talkers,  was  Stryver,  of  the  King’s  Bench  Bar,  far  on  his  way  to 
state  promotion,  and,  therefore,  loud  on  the  theme  : broaching  to  Monseigneur, 
his  devices  for  blowing  the  people  up  and  exterminating  them  from  the  face  of 
the  earth,  and  doing  without  them  : and  far  accomplishing  many  similar  objects 
akin  in  their  nature  to  the  abolition  of  eagles  by  sprinkling  salt  on  the  tails  of  the 
race.  Him,  Darnay  heard  with  a particular  feeling  of  objection  ; and  Darnay 
stood  divided  between  going  away  that  he  might  hear  no  more,  and  remaining  to 
interpose  his  word,  when  the  thing  that  was  to  be,  went  on  to  shape  itself  out. 

The  House  approached  Mr.  Lorry,  and  laying  a soiled  and  unopened  letter 
before  him,  a*ked  if  he  had  yet  discovered  any  traces  of  the  person  to  whom  it 
was  addressed  ? The  House  laid  the  letter  down  so  close  to  .Darnay  that  he  sav( 


138  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


the  direction — the  more  quickly  because  it  was  his  own  right  name.  The  address, 

turned  into  English,  ran  : 

“ Very  pressing.  To  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis  St.  Evremonde,  of 
France.  Confided  to  the  cares  of  Messrs.  Tellson  and  Co.,  Bankers,  London, 
England.” 

On  the  marriage  morning,  Dr.  Manette  had  made  it  his  one  urgent  and  express 
request  to  Charles  Darnay,  that  the  secret  of  this  name  should  be — unless  he,  the 
Doctor,  dissolved  the  obligation — kept  inviolate  between  them.  Nobody  else 
knew  it  to  be  his  name  ; his  own  wife  had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact ; Mr.  Lorry 
could  have  none. 

“ No,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  reply  to  the  House ; “I  have  referred  it,  I think,  to 
everybody  now  here,  and  no  one  can  tell  me  where  this  gentleman  is  to  be  found.” 
The  hands  of  the  clock  verging  upon  the  hour  of  closing  the  Bank,  there  was  a 
general  set  of  the  current  of  talkers  past  Mr.  Lorry’s  desk.  He  held  the  letter  out 
inquiringly ; and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it,  in  the  person  of  this  plotting  and 
indignant  refugee  ; and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it  in  the  person  of  that  plotting 
and  indignant  refugee  ; and  This,  That,  and  The  Other,  all  had  something 
disparaging  to  say,  in  French  or  in  English,  concerning  the  Marquis  who  was  not 
to  be  found. 

“ Nephew,  I believe — but  in  any  case  degenerate  successor — of  the  polished 
Marquis  who  was  murdered,”  said  one.  “ Happy  to  say,  I never  knew  him.” 

“A  craven  who  abandoned  his  post,”  said  another — this  Monseigneur  had  been 
got  out  of  Paris,  legs  uppermost  and  half  suffocated,  in  a load  of  hay — “some 
years  ago.” 

“ Infected  with  the  new  doctrines,”  said  a third,  eyeing  the  direction  through 
his  glass  in  passing;  “ set  himself  in  opposition  to  the  last  Marquis,  abandoned 
the  estates  when  he  inherited  them,  and  left  them  to  the  ruffian  herd.  They  will 
recompense  him  now,  I hope,  as  he  deserves.” 

“Hey?”  cried  the  blatant  Stryver.  “Did  he  though?  Is  that  the  sort  of 
fellow  ? Let  us  look  at  his  infamous  name.  D — n the  fellow  ! ” 

Darnay,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  touched  Mr.  Stryver  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said : 

“ I know  the  fellow.” 

“ Do  vou,  by  Jupiter  ?”  said  Stryver.  “ I am  sorry  for  it.” 

“Why?” 

“Why,  Mr.  Darnay?  D’ye  hear  what  he  did?  Don’t  ask,  why,  in  these 
times.” 

But  I do  ask  why  ?” 

“ Then  I tell  you  again,  Mr.  Darnay,  I am  sorry  for  it.  I am  sorry  to  hear  you 
putting  any  such  extraordinary  questions.  Here  is  a fellow,  who,  infected  by  the 
most  pestilent  and  blasphemous  code  of  devilry  that  ever  was  known,  abandoned 
his  property  to  the  vilest  scum  of  the  earth  that  ever  did  murder  by  wholesale,  and 
you  ask  me  why  I am  sorry  that  a man  who  instructs  youth  knows  him  ? Well, 
but  I’ll  answer  you.  I am  sorry  because  I believe  there  is  contamination  in  such 
a scoundrel.  That’s  why.” 

Mindful  of  the  secret,  Darnay  with*  great  difficulty  checked  himself,  and  said ; 
“ You  may  not  understand  the  gentleman.” 

“I  understand  how  to  put  you  in  a corner,  Mr.  Darnay,”  said  Bully  Stryver, 
“ and  I’ll  do  it.  If  this  fellow  is  a gentleman,  I don't  understand  him.  You  may 
tell  him  so,  with  my  compliments.  You  may  also  tell  him,  from  me,  that  after 
abandoning  his  worldly  goods  and  position  to  this  butcherly  mob,  I wonder  he  is 
not  at  the  head  of  them.  But,  no,  gentlemen,”  said  Stryver,  looking  all  round, 
and  snapping  his  fingers,  “ I know  something  of  human  nature,  and  I tell  you  that 


Charles  Darn  ay  drawn  towards  Paris . 


139 


you’ll  never  find  a fellow  like  this  fellow,  trusting  himself  to  the  mercies  of  such 
precious  proteges.  No,  gentlemen;  he’ll  always  show  ’em  a clean  pair  of  heels 
rerv  earl)  in  the  scuffle,  and  sneak  away.” 

With  those  words,  and  a final  snap  of  his  fingers,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  him- 
self into  Fleet-street,  amidst  the  general  approbation  of  his  hearers.  Mr.  Lorry 
and  Charles  Darnay  were  left  alone  at  the  desk,  in  the  general  departure  from  the 
Bank. 

“Will  you  take  charge  of  the  letter  ?”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “You  know  where  to 
deliver  it  ?” 

“Ido.” 

“Will  you  undertake  to  explain,  that  we  suppose  it  to  have  been  addressed 
here,  on  the  chance  of  our  knowing  where  to  forward  it,  and  that  it  has  been  here 
sometime?” 

“ I will  do  so.  Do  you  start  for  Paris  from  here  ?” 

“ From  here,  at  eight.” 

“ I will  come  back,  to  see  you  off.” 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with  Stryver  and  most  other  men,  Darnay 
made  the  best  of  his  way  into  the  quiet  of  the  Temple,  opened  the  letter,  and  read 
it.  These  were  its  contents  : 

“ Prison  of  the  Abbaye,  Paris. 

“June  21,  1792. 

“Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis. 

“ After  having  long  been  in  danger  of  my  life  at  the  hands  of  the  village,  I have 
been  seized,  with  great  violence  and  indignity,  and  brouglu  a long  journey  on  foot 
to  Paris.  On  the  road  I have  suffered  a great  deal.  Nor  is  that  all ; my  house 
has  been  destroyed — razed  to  the  ground. 

“ The  crime  for  which  I am  imprisoned,  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  and 
for  which  I shall  be  summoned  before  the  tribunal,  and  shall  lose  my  life  (without 
your  so  generous  help),  is,  they  tell  me,  treason  against  the  majesty  of  the  people, 
in  that  I have  acted  against  them  for  an  emigrant.  It  is  in  vain  I represent  that  I 
have  acted  for  them,  and  not  against,  according  to  your  commands.  It  is  in  vain 
I represent  that,  before  the  sequestration  of  emigrant  property,  I had  remitted  the 
imposts  they  had  ceased  to  pay ; that  I had  collected  no  rent ; that  I had  had 
recourse  to  no  process.  The  only  response  is,  that  I have  acted  for  an  emigrant, 
and  where  is  that  emigrant  ? 

“Ah  ! most  gracious  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  where  is  that  emigrant  ? 
I ciy  in  my  sleep  where  is  he  ? I demand  of  Heaven,  will  he  not  come  to  deliver 
me  ? No  answer.  Ah  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  I send  my  desolate  cry 
across  the  sea,  hoping  it  may  perhaps  reach  your  ears  through  the  great  bank  of 
Tilson  known  at  Paris  ! 

“ For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of  the  honour  of  your  noble 
name,  I supplicate  you,  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  to  succour  and  release 
me.  My  fault  is,  that  I have  been  true  to  you.  Oh  Monsieur  heretofore  the 
Marquis,  I pray  you  be  you  true  to  me ! 

“ From  this  prison  here  of  horror,  whence  I every  hour  tend  nearer  and  nearer 
to  destruction,  I send  you,  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  the  assurance  of  my 
dolorous  and  unhappy  service. 

“ Your  afflicted, 

“Gabelle.” 

The  latent  uneasiness  in  Damay’s  mind  was  roused  to  vigorous  life  by  this  letter, 
The  peril  of  an  old  servant  and  a good  one,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to  him- 


14c 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


seif  and  his  family,  stared  him  so  reproachfully  in  the  face,  that,  as  he  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  Temple  considering  what  to  do,  he  almost  hid  his  face  irom  the 
passers-by. 

He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  horror  of  the  deed  which  had  culminated  the  bad 
deeds  and  bad  reputation  of  the  old  family  house,  in  his  resentful  suspicions  of  his 
uncle,  and  in  the  aversion  with  which  his  conscience  regarded  the  crumbling  fabric 
that  he  was  supposed  to  uphold,  he  had  acted  imperfectly.  He  knew  very  well, 
that  in  his  love  for  Lucie,  his  renunciation  of  his  social  place,  though  by  no  means 
new  to  his  own  mind  had  been  hurried  and  incomplete.  He  knew  that  he  ought 
to  have  systematically  worked  it  out  and  supervised  it,  and  that  he  had  meant  to 
do  it,  and  that  it  had  never  been  done. 

The  happiness  of  his  own  chosen  English  home,  the  necessity  of  being  always 
actively  employed,  the  swift  changes  and  troubles  of  the  time  which  had  followed 
on  one  another  so  fast,  that  the  events  of  this  week  annihilated  the  immature 
plans  of  last  week,  and  the  events  of  the  week  following  made  all  new  again ; he 
knew  very  well,  that  to  the  force  of  these  circumstances  he  had  yielded  : — not 
without  disquiet,  but  still  without  continuous  and  accumulating  resistance.  That 
he  had  watched  the  times  for  a time  of  action,  and  that  they  had  shifted  and 
struggled  until  the  time  had  gone  by,  and  the  nobility  were  trooping  from 
France  by  eveiy  highway  and  byway,  and  their  property  was  in  course  of  con- 
fiscation and  destruction,  and  their  very  names  were  blotting  out,  was  as  well 
known  to  himself  as  it  could  be  to  any  new  authority  in  France  that  might  impeach 
him  for  it. 

But,  he  had  oppressed  no  man,  he  had  imprisoned  no  man  ; he  was  so  far  from 
having  harshly  exacted  payment  of  his  dues,  that  he  had  relinquished  them  of  his 
own  will,  thrown  himself  on  a world  with  no  favour  in  it,  won  his  own  private 
place  there,  and  earned  his  own  bread.  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  held  the  im« 
poverished  and  involved  estate  on  written  instructions,  to  spare  the  people,  to  give 
them  what  little  there  was  to  give — such  fuel  as  the  heavy  creditors  would  let  them 
have  in  the  winter,  and  such  produce  as  could  be  saved  from  the  same  grip  in  the 
summer — and  no  doubt  he  had  put  the  fact  in  plea  and  proof,  for  his  own  safety, 
so  that  it  could  not  but  appear  now. 

This  favoured  the  desperate  resolution  Charles  Darnay  had  begun  to  make,  that 
he  would  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  Like  the  mariner  in  the  old  story,  the  winds  and  streams  had  driven  him 
within  the  influence  of  the  Loadstone  Rock,  and  it  was  drawing  him  to  itself,  and 
he  must  go.  Everything  that  arose  before  his  mind  drifted  him  on,  faster  and 
faster,  more  and  more  steadily,  to  the  terrible  attraction.  His  latent  uneasiness 
had  been,  that  bad  aims  were  being  worked  out  in  his  own  unhappy  land  by  bad 
instruments,  and  that  he  who  could  not  fail  to  know  that  he  was  better  than  thoy, 
was  not  there,  trying  to  do  something  to  stay  bloodshed,  and  assert  the  claims  of 
mercy  and  humanity.  With  this  uneasiness  half  stifled,  and  half  reproaching  him, 
he  had  been  brought  to  the  pointed  comparison  of  himself  with  the  brave  old 
gentleman  in  whom  duty  was  so  strong  ; upon  that  comparison  (injurious  to  himself) 
had  instantly  followed  the  sneers  of  Monseigneur,  which  had  stung  him  bitterly, 
and  those  of  Stryver,  which  above  all  were  coarse  and  galling,  for  old  reasons. 
Upon  those,  had  followed  Gabelle’s  letter : the  appeal  of  an  innocent  prisoner,  in 
danger  of  death,  to  his  justice,  honour,  and  good  name. 

His  resolution  was  made.  He  must  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  The  Loadstone  Rock  was  drawing  him,  and  he  must  sail  on,  until  he  struck. 
He  knew  of  no  rock  ; he  saw  hardly  any  danger.  The  intention  with  which  he 
nad  done  what  he  had  done,  even  although  he  had  left  it  incomplete,  presented  it 
before  him  in  an  aspect  that  would  be  gratefully  acknowledged  in  Fiance  on  his 


The  Loadstone  Rock, 


141 

presenting  himself  to  assert  it.  Then,  that  glorious  vision  of  doing  good,  which 
is  so  often  the  sanguine  mirage  of  so  many  good  minds,  arose  before  him,  and  he 
even  saw  himself  in  the  illusion  with  some  influence  to  guide  this  raging  Revolu- 
tion that  was  running  so  fearfully  wild. 

As  he  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  resolution  made,  he  considered  that  neither 
Lucie  nor  her  father  must  know  of  it  until  he  was  gone.  Lucie  should  be 
spared  the  pain  of  separation  ; and  her  father,  always  reluctant  to  turn  his  thoughts 
towards  the  dangerous  ground  of  old,  should  come  to  the  knowledge  ot  the  step, 
as  a step  taken,  and  not  in  the  balance  of  suspense  and  doubt.  How  much 
of  the  incompleteness  of  his  situation  was  referable  to  her  father,  through  the 
painful  anxiety  to  avoid  reviving  old  associations  of  Prance  in  his  mind,  he  did 
not  discuss  with  himself.  But,  that  circumstance  too,  had  had  its  influence  in  his 
course. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  with  thoughts  very  busy,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to 
Tellson’s  and  take  leave  of  Mr.  Lorry.  As  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Paris  he  would 
present  himself  to  this  old  friend,  but  he  must  say  nothing  of  his  intention  now. 

A carriage  with  post-horses  was  ready  at  the  Bank  door,  and  Jerry  was  booted 
and  equipped. 

“I  have  delivered  that  letter, ” said  Charles  Darnay  to  Mr.  Lorry.  “ I would 
not  consent  to  your  being  charged  with  any  written  answer,  but  perhaps  you  will 
take  a verbal  one  ?” 

“ That  I will,  and  readily,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ if  it  is  not  dangerous.” 

“ Not  at  all.  Though  it  is  to  a prisoner  in  the  Abbaye.” 

“ What  is  his  name  ?”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  his  open  pocket-book  in  his  hand. 

“ Gabelle.” 

**  Gabelle.  And  what  is  the  message  to  the  unfortunate  Gabelle  in  prison  ?M 

“ Simply,  * that  he  has  received  the  letter,  and  will  come.’  ” 

“ Any  time  mentioned  ?” 

“ He  will  start  upon  his  journey  to-morrow  night.” 

**  Any  person  mentioned  ?” 

“No.” 

He  helped  Mr.  Lorry  to  wrap  himself  in  a number  of  coats  and  cloaks,  and 
went  out  with  him  from  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  old  Bank,  into  the  misty  air 
of  Fleet-street.  “ My  love  to  Lucie,  and  to  little  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry  at  part- 
ing, “ and  take  precious  care  of  them  till  I come  back.”  Charles  Darnay  shook 
his  head  and  doubtfully  smiled,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

That  night — it  was  the  fourteenth  of  August — he  sat  up  late,  and  wrote  two 
fervent  letters  ; one  was  to  Lucie,  explaining  the  strong  obligation  he  was  under 
to  go  to  Paris,  and  showing  her,  at  length,  the  reasons  that  he  had,  for  feeling  con- 
fident that  he  could  become  involved  in  no  personal  danger  there ; the  other  was 
to  the  Doctor,  confiding  Lucie  and  their  dear  child  to  his  care,  and  dwelling  on 
the  same  topics  with  the  strongest  assurances.  To  both,  he  wrote  that  he  would 
despatch  letters  in  proof  of  his  safety,  immediately  after  his  arrival. 

It  was  a hard  day,  that  day  of  being  among  them,  with  the  first  reservation  of  their 
joint  lives  on  his  mind.  It  was  a hard  matter  to  preserve  the  innocent  deceit  of  which 
they  were  profoundly  unsuspicious.  But,  an  affectionate  glance  at  his  wife,  so 
happy  and  busy,  made  him  resolute  not  to  tell  her  what  impended  (he  had  been 
half  moved  to  do  it,  so  strange  it  was  to  him  to  act  in  anything  without  her  quiet 
aid),  and  the  day  passed  quickly.  Early  in  the  evening  he  embraced  her,  and 
her  scarcely  Jess  dear  namesake,  pretending  that  he  would  return  by-and-by  (an 
imaginary  engagement  took  him  out,  and  he  had  secreted  a valise  of  clothes 
ready),  and  so  he  emerged  hito  the  heavy  mist  of  the  heavy  streets,  with  a heavier 
heart. 


*4* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


The  unseen  force  was  drawing  him  fast  to  itself,  now,  and  all  the  tides  and 
winds  weie  setting  straight  and  strong  towards  it.  He  left  his  two  letters  with  a 
trusty  porter,  to  be  delivered  half  an  hour  before  midnight,  and  no  sooner ; took 
horse  for  Dover  ; and  began  his  journey.  “ For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice, 
of  generosity,  of  the  honour  of  your  noble  name !”  was  the  poor  prisoner’s  cry 
with  which  he  strengthened  his  sinking  heart,  as  he  left  all  that  was  dear  on  earth 
behind  him,  and  floated  away  for  the  Loadstone  Rock* 


BOOK  THE  THIRD, 


THE  TRACK  OF  A STORM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  SECRET* 

The  traveller  fared  slowly  on  his  way,  who  fared  towards  Paris  from  Eng^tid  in 
the  autumn  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two.  than 

enough  of  bad  roads,  bad  equipages,  and  bad  horses,  he  would  have  encountered 
to  delay  him,  though  the  fallen  and  unfortunate  King  of  France  had  been  upon 
his  throne  in  all  his  glory;  but,  the  changed  times  were  fraught  with  other 
obstacles  than  these.  Every  town-gate  and  village  taxing-house  had  its  band  of 
citizen-patriots,  with  their  national  muskets  in  a most  explosive  state  of  readiness, 
who  stopped  all  comers  and  goers,  cross-questioned  them,  inspected  their  papers, 
looked  for  their  names  in  lists  of  their  own,  turned  them  back,  or  sent  them  on, 
or  stopped  them  and  laid  them  in  hold,  as  their  capricious  judgment  or  fancy 
deemed  best  for  the  dawning  Republic  One  and  Indivisible,  of  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity,  or  Death. 

A very  few  French  leagues  of  his  journey  were  accomplished,  when  Charles 
Darnay  began  to  perceive  that  for  him  along  these  country  roads  there  was  no  hope  of 
return  until  he  should  have  been  declared  a good  citizen  at  Paris.  Whatever  might 
befall  now,  he  must  on  to  his  journey’s  end.  Not  a mean  village  closed  upon  him, 
not  a common  barrier  dropped  across  the  road  behind  him,  but  he  knew  it  to  be 
another  iron  door  in  the  series  that  was  barred  between  him  and  England.  The 
universal  watchfulness  so  encompassed  him,  that  if  he  had  been  taken  in  a net,  or 
were  being  forwarded  to  his  destination  in  a cage,  he  could  not  have  felt  his  free* 
dom  more  completely  gone. 

This  universal  watchfulness  not  only  stopped  him  on  the  highway  twenty  times 
in  a stage,  but  retarded  his  progress  twenty  times  in  a day,  by  riding  after  him 
and  taking  him  back,  riding  before  him  and  stopping  him  by  anticipation,  riding 
with  him  and  keeping  him  in  charge.  He  had  been  days  upon  his  journey  in 
France  alone,  when  he  went  to  bed  tired  out,  in  a little  town  on  the  high  road, 
still  a long  way  from  Paris. 

Nothing  but  the  production  of  the  afflicted  Gabelle’s  letter  from  his  prison  of 
the  Abbaye  would  have  got  him  on  so  far.  His  difficulty  at  the  guard-house  in 
this  small  place  had  been  such,  that  he  felt  his  journey  to  have  come  to  a crisis. 
And  he  was,  therefore,  as  little  surprised  as  a man  could  be,  to  find  himself 
awakened  at  the  small  inn  to  which  he  had  been  remitted  until  morning,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night. 


*44 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Awakened  by  a timid  local  functionary  and  three  armed  patriots  in  rough  red 
caps  and  with  pipes  in  their  mouths,  who  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

“ Emigrant,”  said  the  functionary,  “ I am  going  to  send  you  on  to  Paris,  under 
an  escort.” 

“ Citizen,  I desire  nothing  more  than  to  get  to  Paris,  though  I could  dispense 
with  the  escort.” 

“ Silence  ! ” growled  a red-cap,  striking  at  the  coverlet  with  the  butt-end  of  his 
musket.  “ Peace,  aristocrat ! ” 

“ It  is  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the  timid  functionary.  “ You  are  an 
aristocrat,  and  must  have  an  escort — and  must  pay  for  it.” 

“I  have  no  choice,”  said  Charles  Darnay. 

“ Choice  ! Listen  to  him  ! ” cried  the  same  scowling  red-cap.  “As  if  it  was 
not  a favour  to  be  protected  from  the  lamp-iron ! ” 

“ It  is  always  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the  functionary.  “ Rise  and 
dress  yourself,  emigrant.” 

Darnay  complied,  and  was  taken  back  to  the  guard-house,  where  other  patriots 
in  rough  red  caps  were  smoking,  drinking,  and  sleeping,  by  a watch-fire.  Here  he 
paid  a heavy  price  for  his  escort,  and  hence  he  started  with  it  on  the  wet,  wet 
roads  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

The  escort  were  two  mounted  patriots  in  red  caps  and  tricoloured  cockades, 
armed  with  national  muskets  and  sabres,  who  rode  one  on  either  side  of  him.  The 
escorted  governed  his  own  horse,  but  a loose  line  was  attached  to  his  bridle,  the 
end  of  which  one  of  the  patriots  kept  girded  round  his  wrist.  In  this  state  they 
set  forth  with  the  sharp  rain  driving  in  their  faces  : clattering  at  a heavy  dragoon 
trot  over  the  uneven  town  pavement,  and  out  upon  the  mire-deep  roads.  In  this 
state  they  traversed  without  change,  except  of  horses  and  pace,  all  the  mire-deep 
leagues  that  lay  between  them  and  the  capital. 

They  travelled  in  the  night,  halting  an  hour  or  two  after  daybreak,  and  lying  by 
until  the  twilight  fell.  The  escort  were  so  wretchedly  clothed,  that  they  twisted 
straw  round  their,  bare  legs,  and  thatched  their  ragged  shoulders  to  keep  the  wet 
off.  Apart  from  the  personal  discomfort  of  being  so  attended,  and  apart  from 
such  considerations  of  present  danger  as  arose  from  one  of  the  patriots  being 
chronically  d unk,  and  carrying  his  musket  very  recklessly,  Charles  Darnay  did  not 
allow  the  restraint  that  was  laid  upon  him  to  awaken  any  serious  fears  in  his  breast ; 
for,  he  reasoned  with  himself  that  it  could  have  no  reference  to  the  merits  of  an 
individual  case  that  was  not  yet  stated,  and  of  representations,  confirmable  by  the 
prisoner  in  the  Abbaye,  that  were  not  yet  made. 

But  when  they  came  to  the  town  of  Beauvais — which  they  did  at  eventide,  when 
the  streets  were  filled  with  people — he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the 
aspect  of  affairs  was  very  alarming.  An  ominous  crowd  gathered  to  see  him  dis- 
mount at  the  posting-yard,  and  many  voices  called  out  loudly,  “Down  with  the 
emigrant!” 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  swinging  himself  out  of  his  saddle,  and,  resuming  it 
as  his  safest  place,  said  : 

“ Emigrant,  my  friends  ! Do  you  not  see  me  here,  in  France,  of  my  own  will  ?” 

“You  are  a cursed  emigrant,”  cried  a farrier,  making  at  him  in  a furious  manner 
through  the  press,  hammer  in  hand  ; “ and  you  are  a cursed  aristocrat ! ” 

The  postmaster  interposed  himself  between  this  man  and  the  rider’s  bridle  (at 
which  he  was  evidently  making),  and  soothingly  said,  “Let  him  be ; let  him  be! 
He  will  be  judged  at  Paris.” 

“ Judged  !”  repeated  the  farrier,  swinging  his  hammer.  “Ay  ! and  condemned 
as  a traitor.”  At  this  the  crowd  roared  approval. 

Checking  the  postmaster,  who  was  for  turning  his  horse’s  head  to  the  yard  (the 


The  Emigrant  suspected . 145 

drunken  patriot  sat  composedly  in  his  saddle  looking  on,  with  the  line  round  his 
wrist),  Darnay  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  make  his  voice  heard  : 

“ Friends,  you  deceive  yourselves,  or  you  are  deceived.  I am  not  a traitor.” 

“ He  lies  ! ” cried  the  smith.  “ He  is  a traitor  since  the  decree.  His  life  is 
forfeit  to  the  people.  His  cursed  life  is  not  his  own  ! ” 

At  the  instant  when  Darnay  saw  a rush  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  which  another 
instant  would  have  brought  upon  him,  the  postmaster  turned  his  horse  into  the 
yard,  the  escort  rode  in  close  upon  his  horse’s  flanks,  and  the  postmaster  shut  and 
barred  the  crazy  double  gates.  The  farrier  struck  a blow  upon  them  with  his 
hammer,  and  the  crowd  groaned ; but,  no  more  was  done. 

“ What  is  this  decree  that  the  smith  spoke  of?  ” Darnay  asked  the  postmaster, 
when  he  had  thanked  him,  and  stood  beside  him  in  the  yard. 

“ Truly,  a decree  for  selling  the  property  of  emigrants.” 

“ When  passed  ? ” 

“ On  the  fourteenth.” 

“ The  day  I left  England  !” 

“Everybody  says  it  is  but  one  of  several,  and  that  there  will  be  others — if  there 
are  not  already — banishing  all  emigrants,  and  condemning  all  to  death  who  return. 
That  is  what  he  meant  when  he  said  your  life  was  not  your  own.” 

“ But  there  are  no  such  decrees  yet  ? ” 

“What  do  I know  !”  said  the  postmaster,  shrugging  his  shoulders;  “there 
may  be,  or  there  will  be.  It  is  all  the  same.  What  would  you  have  ? ” 

They  rested  on  some  straw  in  a loft  until  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  then  rode 
forward  again  when  all  the  town  was  asleep.  Among  the  many  wild  changes 
observable  on  familiar  things  which  made  this  wild  ride  unreal,  not  the  least  was 
the  seeming  rarity  of  sleep.  After  long  and  lonely  spurring  over  dreary  roads, 
they  would  come  to  a cluster  of  poor  cottages,  not  steeped  in  darkness,  but  all 
glittering  with  lights,  and  would  find  the  people,  in  a ghostly  manner  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  circling  hand  in  hand  round  a shrivelled  tree  of  Liberty,  or  all 
drawn  up  together  singing  a Liberty  song.  Happily,  however,  there  was  sleep 
in  Beauvais  that  night  to  help  them  out  of  it,  and  they  passed  on  once  more  into 
solitude  and  loneliness  : jingling  through  the  untimely  cold  and  wet,  among 
impoverished  fields  that  had  yielded  no  fruits  of  the  earth  that  year,  diversified  by 
the  blackened  remains  of  burnt  houses,  and  by  the  sudden  emergence  from 
ambuscade,  and  sharp  reining  up  across  their  way,  of  patriot  patrols  on  the  watch 
on  all  the  roads. 

Daylight  at  last  found  them  before  the  wall  of  Paris.  The  barrier  was  closed 
and  strongly  guarded  when  they  rode  up  to  it. 

“ Where  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner  ? ” demanded  a resolute-looking  man  in 
authority,  who  was  summoned  out  by  the  guard. 

Naturally  struck  by  the  disagreeable  word,  Charles  Darnay  requested  the 
speaker  to  take  notice  that  he  was  a free  traveller  and  French  citizen,  in  charge 
of  an  escort  which  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country  had  imposed  upon  him,  and 
which  he  had  paid  for. 

“ Where,”  repeated  the  same  personage,  without  taking  any  heed  of  him 
whatever,  “ are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner  ? ” 

The  drunken  patriot  had  them  in  his  cap,  and  produced  them.  Casting  his  eyes 
over  Gabelle’s  letter,  the  same  personage  in  authority  showed  some  disorder  and 
surprise,  and  looked  at  Darnay  with  a close  attention. 

He  left  escort  and  escorted  without  saying  a word,  however,  and  went  into  the 
guard-room  ; meanwhile,  they  sat  upon  their  horses  outside  the  gate.  Looking 
about  him  while  in  this  state  of  suspense,  Charles  Darnay  observed  that  the  gate 
was  held  by  a mixed  guard  of  soldiers  and  patriots,  the  latter  far  outnumbering 

& 


i46  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

the  former ; and  that  while  ingress  into  the  city  for  peasants’  carts  bringing  iu 
supplies,  and  for  similar  traffic  and  traffickers,  was  easy  enough,  egress,  even  foi 
the  homeliest  people,  was  very  difficult.  A numerous  medley  of  men  and  women, 
not  to  mention  beasts  and  vehicles  of  various  sorts,  was  waiting  to  issue  forth ; 
but,  the  previous  identification  was  so  strict,  that  they  filtered  through  the  barrier 
very  slowly.  Some  of  these  people  knew  their  turn  for  examination  to  be  so  far 
off,  that  they  lay  down  on  the  ground  to  sleep  or  smoke,  while  others  talked  to- 
gether, or  loitered  about.  The  red  cap  and  tricolour  cockade  were  universal,  both 
among  men  and  women. 

When  he  had  sat  in  his  saddle  some  half-hour,  taking  note  of  these  things, 
Danny  found  himself  confronted  by  the  same  man  in  authority,  who  directed  the 
guard  to  open  the  bander.  Then  he  delivered  to  the  escort,  drunk  and  sober,  a 
receipt  for  the  escorted,  and  requested  him  to  dismount.  He  did  so,  and  the 
two  patriots,  leading  his  tired  horse,  turned  and  rode  away  without  entering  the 
city. 

He  accompanied  his  conductor  into  a guard-room,  smelling  of  common  wine 
and  tobacco,  where  certain  soldiers  and  patriots,  asleep  and  awake,  drunk  and 
sober,  and  in  various  neutral  states  between  sleeping  and  waking,  drunkenness  and 
sobriety,  were  standing  and  lying  about.  The  light  in  the  guard-house,  half 
derived  from  the  waning  oil-lamps  of  the  night,  and  half  from  the  overcast  day, 
was  in  a correspondingly  uncertain  condition.  Some  registers  were  lying  open 
on  a desk,  and  an  officer  of  a coarse,  dark  aspect,  presided  over  these. 

44  Citizen  Defarge,”  said  he  to  Darnay’s  conductor,  as  he  took  a slip  of  paper 
to  write  on.  44  Is  this  the  emigrant  Evremonde  ?” 

4‘  This  is  the  man.” 

44  Your  age,  Evremonde  ?” 

44  Thirty-seven.” 

44  Married,  Evremonde  ?” 

44  Yes.” 

44  Where  married  ?” 

44  In  England.” 

44  Without  doubt.  Where  is  your  wife,  Evremonde  ?w 
44  In  PIngland.” 

44  Without  doubt.  You  are  consigned,  Evremonde,  to  the  prison  of  La  Force.” 
44  Just  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  Darnay.  44  Under  what  law,  and  for  what 
offence  ? ” 

The  officer  looked  up  from  his  slip  of  paper  for  a moment. 

44  We  have  new  laws,  Evremonde,  and  new  offences,  since  you  were  here.”  He 
said  it  with  a hard  smile,  and  went  on  writing. 

44 1 entreat  you  to  observe  that  I have  come  here  voluntarily,  in  response  to  that 
written  appeal  of  a fellow-countryman  which  lies  before  you.  I demand  no  more 
than  the  opportunity  to  do  so  without  delay.  Is  not  that  my  right  ? ” 

“Emigrants  have  no  rights,  Evremonde,”  was  the  stolid  reply.  The  officer 
wrote  until  he  had  finished,  read  over  to  himself  what  he  had  written,  sanded  it, 
and  handed  it  to  Defarge,  with  the  words  44  In  secret.” 

Defarge  motioned  with  the  paper  to  the  prisoner  that  he  must  accompany  him. 
The  prisoner  obeyed,  and  a guard  of  two  armed  patriots  attended  them. 

44  Is  it  you,”  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice,  as  they  went  down  the  guard-house 
steps  and  turned  into  Paris,  44  who  married  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  once 
a prisoner  in  the  Bastille  that  is  no  more?” 

44  Yes,”  replied  Darnay,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

44  My  name  is  Defarge,  and  I keep  a wine-shop  in  the  Quarter  Saint  Antoine. 
Possibly  you  have  heard  of  me.” 


Consigned  to  prison. 


H7 


“ My  wife  L’me  to  your  house  to  reclaim  her  father  ? Yes  !” 

The  word  “'wife”  seemed  to  serve  as  a gloomy  reminder  to  Defarge,  to  say  with 
sudden  impatience,  “In  the  name  of  that  sharp  female  newly-born,  and  called  La 
Guillotine,  why  did  you  come  to  France  ?” 

“ You  heard  me  say  why,  a minute  ago.  Do  you  not  believe  it  is  the  truth  ?” 

“ A bad  truth  for  you,”  said  Defarge,  speaking  with  knitted  brows,  and  looking 
straight  before  him. 

“ Indeed  I am  lost  here.  All  here  is  so  unprecedented,  so  changed,  so  sudden 
and  unfair,  that  I am  absolutely  lost.  Will  you  render  me  a little  help  ?” 

“ None.”  Defarge  spoke,  always  looking  straight  before  him. 

“ Will  you  answer  me  a single  question  ? ” 

“ Perhaps.  According  to  its  nature.  You  can  say  what  it  is.” 

“ In  this  prison  that  I am  going  to  so  unjustly,  shall  I have  some  free  commu- 
nication with  the  world  outside  ? ” 

“You  will  see.” 

“Iam  not  to  be  buried  there,  prejudged,  and  without  any  means  of  presenting 
my  case  ? ” 

“You  will  see.  But,  what  then  ? Other  people  have  been  similarly  buried  in 
woise  prisons,  before  now.” 

“ But  never  by  me,  Citizen  Defarge.” 

Defarge  glanced  darkly  at  him  for  answer,  and  walked  on  in  a steady  and  set 
silence.  The  deeper  he  sank  into  this  silence,  the  fainter  hope  there  was — or  so 
Darnay  thought — of  his  softening  in  any  slight  degree.  He,  therefore,  made 
haste  to  say  : 

“It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  (you  know,  Citizen,  even  better  than  I, 
of  how  much  importance),  that  I should  be  able  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Lorry  of 
Tellson’s  Bank,  an  English  gentleman  who  is  now  in  Paris,  the  simple  fact,  with- 
out comment,  that  I have  been  thrown  into  the  prison  of  La  Force.  Will  you 
cause  that  to  be  done  for  me  ? ” 

“ I will  do,”  Defarge  doggedly  rejoined,  “ nothing  for  you.  My  duty  is  to  my 
country  and  the  People.  I am  the  sworn  servant  of  both,  against  you.  I will  do 
nothing  for  you.” 

Charles  Darnay  felt  it  hopeless  to  entreat  him  further,  and  his  pride  was  touched 
besides.  As  they  walked  on  in  silence,  he  could  not  but  see  how  used  the  people 
were  to  the  spectacle  of  prisoners  passing  along  the  streets.  The  very  children 
scarcely  noticed  him.  A few  passers  turned  their  heads,  and  a few  shook  their 
fingers  at  him  as  an  aristocrat ; otherwise,  that  a man  in  good  clothes  should  be 
going  to  prison,  was  no  more  remarkable  than  that  a labourer  in  working  clothes 
should  be  going  to  work.  In  one  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty  street  through  which 
they  passed,  an  excited  orator,  mounted  on  a stool,  was  addressing  an  excited 
audience  on  the  crimes  against  the  people,  of  the  king  and  the  royal  family.  The 
few  words  that  he  caught  from  this  man’s  lips,  first  made  it  known  to  Charles 
Darnay  that  the  king  was  in  prison,  and  that  the  foreign  ambassadors  had  one 
and  all  left  Paris.  On  the  road  (except  at  Beauvais)  he  had  heard  absolutely 
nothing.  The  escort  and  the  universal  watchfulness  had  completely  isolated  him. 

That  he  had  fallen  among  far  greater  dangers  than  those  which  had  developed 
themselves  when  he  left  England,  he  of  course  knew  now.  That  perils  had 
thickened  about  him  fast,  and  might  thicken  faster  and  faster  yet,  he  of  course 
knew  now.  He  could  not  but  admit  to  himself  that  he  might  not  have  made  this 
journey,  if  he  could  have  foreseen  the  events  of  a few  days.  And  yet  his  mis- 
givings were  not  so  dark  as,  imagined  by  the  light  of  this  later  time,  they  would 
appear.  Troubled  as  the  future  was,  it  was  the  unknown  future,  and  in  it# 
obscurity  there  was  ignorant  hope  The  horrible  massacre,  dayi  ana  nights  long 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


148 

which,  within  a few  round?  of  the  clock,  was  to  set  a great  mark  of  blood  upon 
the  blessed  garnering  time  of  harvest,  was  as  far  out  of  his  knowledge  as  if  it 
had  been  a hundred  thousand  years  away.  The  “ sharp  female  newly -born,  and 
called  La  Guillotine,”  was  hardly  known  to  him,  or  to  the  generality  of  people,  by 
name.  The  frightful  deeds  that  were  to  be  soon  done,  were  probably  unimagined 
at  that  time  in  the  brains  of  the  doers.  How  could  they  have  a place  in  the 
shadowy  conceptions  of  a gentle  mind  ? 

Of  unjust  treatment  in  detention  and  hardship,  and  in  cruel  separation  from  his 
wife  and  child,  he  foreshadowed  the  likelihood,  or  the  certainty ; but,  beyond 
this,  he  dreaded  nothing  distinctly.  With  this  on  his  mind,  which  was  enough  to 
carry  into  a dreary  prison  court-yard,  he  arrived  at  the  prison  of  La  Force. 

A man  with  a bloated  face  opened  the  strong  wicket,  to  whom  Defarge  pre- 
sented “ The  Emigrant  Evremonde.” 

“ What  the  Devil ! How  many  more  of  them  ! ” exclaimed  the  man  with  the 
bloated  face. 

Defarge  took  his  receipt  without  noticing  the  exclamation,  and  withdrew,  with 
his  two  fellow-patriots. 

“ What  the  Devil,  I say  again ! ” exclaimed  the  gaoler,  left  with  his  wife. 
“How  many  more  ! ” 

The  gaoler’s  wife,  being  provided  with  no  answer  to  the  question,  merely 
replied,  “One  must  have  patience,  my  dear!”  Three  turnkeys  who  entered 
responsive  to  a bell  she  rang,  echoed  the  sentiment,  and  one  added,  “For  the 
love  of  Liberty ; ” which  sounded  in  that  place  like  an  inappropriate  conclusion. 

The  prison  of  La  Force  was  a gloomy  prison,  dark  and  filthy,  and  with  a 
horrible  smell  of  foul  sleep  in  it.  Extraordinary  how  soon  the  noisome  flavour 
of  imprisoned  sleep,  becomes  manifest  in  all  such  places  that  are  ill  cared  for  ! 

“In  secret,  too,”  grumbled  the  gaoler,  looking  at  the  written  paper.  “As  it 
I was  not  already  full  to  bursting ! ” 

He  stuck  the  paper  on  a file,  in  an  ill-humour,  and  Charles  Darnay  awaited 
his  further  pleasure  for  half  an  hour : sometimes,  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  strong 
arched  room  : sometimes,  resting  on  a stone  seat : in  either  case  detained  to  be 
imprinted  on  the  memory  of  the  chief  and  his  subordinates. 

“ Come  ! ” said  the  chief,  at  length  taking  up  his  keys,  “ come  with  me, 
emigrant.” 

Through  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new  charge  accompanied  him  by  cor- 
ridor and  staircase,  many  doors  clanging  and  locking  behind  them,  until  they 
came  into  a large,  low,  vaulted  chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners  of  both  sexes. 
The  women  were  seated  at  a long  table,  reading  and  writing,  knitting,  sewing, 
and  embroidering ; the  men  were  for  the  most  part  standing  behind  their  chairs, 
or  lingering  up  and  down  the  room. 

In  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners  with  shameful  crime  and  disgrace,  the 
new  comer  recoiled  from  this  company.  But  the  crowning  unreality  of  his  long 
unreal  ride,  was,  their  all  at  once  rising  to  receive  him,  with  every  refinement  oi 
manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with  all  the  engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life. 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements  by  the  prison  manners  and  gloom, 
bo  spectral  did  they  become  in  the  inappropriate  squalor  and  misery  through  which 
they  were  seen,  that  Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in  a company  of  the  dead. 
Ghosts  all ! The  ghost  of  beauty,  the  ghost  of  stateliness,  the  ghost  of  elegance, 
the  ghost  of  pride,  the  ghost  of  frivolity,  the  ghost  of  wit,  the  ghost  of  youth,  the 
ghost  of  age,  all  waiting  their  dismissal  from  the  desolate  shore,  all  turning  on 
him  eyes  that  were  changed  by  the  death  they  had  died  in  coming  there. 

It  struck  him  motionless.  The  gaoler  standing  at  his  side,  and  the  other  gaoler! 
moving  about,  who  would  have  been  well  enough  as  to  a^p^rance  in  the  ordi- 


In  secret. 


149 

nary  exercise  of  their  functions,  looked  so  extravagantly  coarse  contrasted  with 
sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming  daughters  who  were  there — with  the  apparitions 
of  the  coquette,  the  young  beauty,  and  the  mature  woman  delicately  bred — that 
the  inversion  of  all  experience  and  likelihood  which  the  scene  of  shadows  pre- 
sented, was  heightened  to  its  utmost.  Surely,  ghosts  all.  Surely,  the  long 
unreal  ride  some  progress  of  disease  that  had  brought  him  to  these  gloomy 
shades ! 

“ In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions  in  misfortune,”  said  a gentleman 
of  courtly  appearance  and  address,  coming  forward,  “ I have  the  honour  of  giving 
you  welcome  to  La  Force,  and  of  condoling  with  you  on  the  calamity  that  has 
brought  you  among  us.  May  it  soon  terminate  happily  ! It  would  be  an  imper- 
tinence elsewhere,  but  it  is  not  so  here,  to  ask  your  name  and  condition  ?” 

Charles  Darnay  roused  himself,  and  gave  the  required  information,  in  words  as 
suitable  as  he  could  find. 

“But  I hope,”  said  the  gentleman,  following  the  chief  gaoler  with  his  eyes, 
who  moved  across  the  room,  “ that  you  are  not  in  secret  ? ” 

“ I do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  but  I have  heard  them  say  so.” 
“Ah,  what  a pity  ! We  so  much  regret  it ! But  take  courage  ; several  mem- 
bers of  our  society  have  been  in  secret,  at  first,  and  it  has  lasted  but  a short 
time.”  Then  he  added,  raising  his  voice,  “ I grieve  to  inform  the  society — in 
secret.” 

There  was  a murmur  of  commiseration  as  Charles  Darnay  crossed  the  room  to 
a grated  door  where  the  gaoler  awaited  him,  and  many  voices — among  which,  the 
soft  and  compassionate  voices  of  women  were  conspicuous — gave  him  good 
wishes  and  encouragement.  He  turned  at  the  grated  door,  to  render  the  thanks 
of  his  heart ; it  closed  under  the  gaoler’s  hand ; and  the  apparitions  vanished 
from  his  sight  for  ever. 

The  wicket  opened  on  a stone  staircase,  leading  upward.  When  they  had 
ascended  forty  steps  (the  prisoner  of  half  an  hour  already  counted  them),  the 
gaoler  opened  a low  black  door,  and  they  passed  into  a solitary  cell.  It  struck 
cold  and  damp,  but  was  not  dark. 

“Yours,”  said  the  gaoler. 

“ Why  am  I confined  alone  ? ” 

“ How  do  I know  ! ” 

“ I can  buy  pen,  ink,  and  paper  ? ” 

“ Such  are  not  my  orders.  You  will  be  visited,  and  can  ask  then.  At  present, 
you  may  buy  your  food,  and  nothing  more.” 

There  were  in  the  cell,  a chair,  a table,  and  a straw  mattress.  As  the  gaoler 
made  a general  inspection  of  these  objects,  and  of  the  four  walls,  before  going 
out,  a wandering  fancy  wandered  through  the  mind  of  the  prisoner  leaning  against 
the  wall  opposite  to  him,  that  this  gaoler  was  so  unwholesomely  bloated,  both  in 
face  and  person,  as  to  look  like  a man  who  had  been  drowned  and  filled  with 
water.  When  the  gaoler  was  gone,  he  thought  in  the  same  wandering  way, 
“Now  am  I left,  as  if  I were  dead.”  Stopping  then,  to  look  down  at  the  mat- 
tress, he  turned  from  it  with  a sick  feeling,  and  thought,  “AnA  here  in  these 
crawling  creatures  is  the  first  condition  of  the  body  after  death.” 

“ Five  paces  by  four  and  a half,  five  paces  by  four  and  a hall,  !we  paces  by  four 
and  a half.”  The  prisoner  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  cell,  counting  its  measure- 
ment, and  the  roar  of  tire  city  arose  like  muffled  drums  with  a wild  swell  of  voices 
added  to  them.  “ Hi  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes.”  The  pri- 
soner counted  the  measurement  again,  and  paced  faster,  to  draw  his  mind  with 
him  from  that  latter  repetition.  “The  ghosts  that  vanished  when  the  wicket 
closed.  There  was  one  among  them,  the  appearance  of  a lady  dressed  in  black. 


ISO 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


who  was  leaning  in  the  embrasure  of  a window,  and  she  had  a light  shining  upon 
her  golden  hair,  and  she  looked  like  * * * * Let  us  ride  on  again,  for  God’s 
sake,  through  the  illuminated  villages  with  the  people  all  awake  I * * * • He 
made  shoes,  he  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes.  * * * * Five  paces  by  foui  and 
a half.”  With  such  scraps  tossing  and  rolling  upward  from  the  depths  of  his 
mind,  the  prisoner  walked  faster  and  faster,  obstinately  counting  and  counting ; 
and  the  roar  of  the  city  changed  to  this  extent — that  it  still  rolled  in  like  muffled 
drums,  but  with  the  wail  of  voices  that  he  knew,  in  the  swell  that  rose  above 
them. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  GRINDSTONE. 

Tellson’s  Bank,  established  in  the  Saint  Germain  Quarter  of  Paris,  was  in  a 
ving  of  a large  house,  approached  by  a court-yard  and  shut  off  from  the  street  by 
a high  wall  and  a strong  gate.  The  house  belonged  to  a great  nobleman  who 
had  lived  in  it  until  he  made  a flight  from  the  troubles,  in  his  own  cook’s  dress, 
and  got  across  the  borders.  A mere  beast  of  the  chase  flying  from  hunters,  he 
was  still  in  his  metempsychosis  no  other  than  the  same  Monseigneur,  the  prepa- 
ration of  whose  chocolate  for  whose  lips  had  once  occupied  three  strong  men 
besides  the  cook  in  question. 

Monseigneur  gone,  and  the  three  strong  men  absolving  themselves  from  the  sin 
of  having  drawn  his  high  wages,  by  being  more  than  ready  and  willing  to  cut  his 
throat  on  the  altar  of  the  dawning  Republic  one  and  indivisible  of  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  Monseigneur’s  house  had  been  first  sequestrated, 
and  then  confiscated.  For,  all  things  moved  so  fast,  and  decree  followed  decree 
with  that  fierce  precipitation,  that  now  upon  the  third  night  of  the  autumn  month 
of  September,  patriot  emissaries  of  the  law  were  in  possession  of  Monseigneur’s 
house,  and  had  marked  it  with  the  tricolour,  and  were  drinking  brandy  in  its  state 
apartments. 

A place  of  business  in  Londun  like  Tellson’s  place  of  business  in  Paris,  would 
soon  have  driven  the  House  out  of  its  mind  and  into  the  Gazette.  For,  what 
would  staid  British  responsibility  and  respectability  have  said  to  orange-trees  in 
boxes  in  a Bank  court-yard,  and  even  to  a Cupid  over  the  counter  ? Yet  such 
things  were.  Tellson’s  had  whitewashed  the  Cupid,  but  he  was  still  to  be  seen 
on  the  ceiling,  in  the  coolest  linen,  aiming  (as  he  very  often  does)  at  money  from 
morning  to  night.  Bankruptcy  must  inevitably  have  come  of  this  young  Pagan, 
in  Lombard-street,  London,  and  also  of  a curtained  alcove  in  the  rear  of  the 
immortal  boy,  and  also  of  a looking-glass  let  into  the  wall,  and  also  of  clerks  not 
at  all  old,  who  danced  in  public  on  the  slightest  provocation.  Yet,  a French 
Tellson’s  could  get  on  with  these  things  exceedingly  well,  and,  as  long  as  the 
times  held  together,  no  man  had  taken  fright  at  them,  and  drawn  out  his  money. 

What  money  would  be  drawn  out  of  Tellson’s  henceforth,  and  what  would  lie 
there,  lost  and  forgotten  ; what  plate  and  jewels  would  tarnish  in  Tellson’s 
hiding-places,  while  the  depositors  rusted  in  prisons,  and  when  they  should  have 
violently  peiished ; how  many  accounts  with  Tellson’s  never  to  be  balanced  in 
this  world,  must  be  carried  over  into  the  next ; no  man  could  have  said,  that 
night,  any  more  than  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  could,  though  he  thought  heavily  of  these 
questions.  He  sat  by  a newly-lighted  wood  fire  (the  blighted  and  unfruitful  year 
V as  prematurely  cold),  and  on  his  honest  and  courageous  face  there  was  a deepex 


Lu:u  and  her  father  in  Paris.  151 

shade  than  the  pendent  lamp  could  throw,  or  any  object  in  the  room  distortedly 
reflect — a shade  of  horror. 

He  occupied  rooms  in  the  Bank,  in  his  fidelity  to  the  House  of  which  he  had 
grown  to  be  a part,  like  strong  root-ivy.  It  chanced  that  they  derived  a kind  of 
security  from  the  patriotic  occupation  of  the  main  building,  but  the  true-hearted 
old  gentleman  never  calculated  about  that.  All  such  circumstances  were  indifferent 
to  him,  so  that  he  did  his  duty.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  court-yard,  under  a 
colonnade,  was  extensive  standing  for  carriages — where,  indeed,  some  carriages 
of  Monseigneur  yet  stood.  Against  two  of  the  pillars  were  fastened  two  gieat 
flaring  flambeaux,  and  in  the  light  of  these,  standing  out  in  the  open  air,  was  a 
large  grindstone : a roughly  mounted  thing  which  appeared  to  have  hurriedly 
been  brought  there  from  some  neighbouring  smithy,  or  other  workshop.  Rising 
and  looking  out  of  window  at  these  harmless  objects,  Mr.  Lorry  shivered,  and 
retired  to  his  seat  by  the  fire.  He  had  opened,  not  only  the  glass  window,  but 
the  lattice  blind  outside  it,  and  he  had  closed  both  again,  and  he  shivered  through 
his  frame. 

From  the  streets  beyond  the  high  wall  and  the  strong  gate,  there  came  the 
usual  night  hum  of  the  city,  with  now  and  then  an  indescribable  ring  in  it,  weird 
and  unearthly,  as  if  some  unwonted  sounds  of  a terrible  nature  were  going  up 
to  Heaven. 

“ Thank  God,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clasping  his  hands,  “ that  no  one  near  and  dear 
to  me  is  in  this  dreadful  town  to-night.  May  Pie  have  mercy  on  all  who  are  in 
danger ! ” 

Soon  afterwards,  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded,  and  he  thought,  “ They 
have  come  back  ! ” and  sat  listening.  But,  there  was  no  loud  irruption  into 
the  court-yard,  as  he  had  expected,  and  he  heard  the  gate  clash  again,  and  all 
was  quiet. 

The  nervousness  and  dread  that  were  upon  him  inspired  that  vague  uneasiness 
respecting  the  Bank,  which  a great  change  would  naturally  awaken,  with  such 
feelings  roused.  It  was  well  guarded,  and  he  got  up  to  go  among  the  trusty 
people  who  were  watching  it,  when  his  door  suddenly  opened,  and  two  figures 
rushed  in,  at  sight  of  which  he  fell  back  in  amazement. 

Lucie  and  her  father  ! Lucie  with  her  arms  stretched  out  to  him,  and  with  that 
old  look  of  earnestness  so  concentrated  and  intensified,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
it  had  been  stamped  upon  her  face  expressly  to  give  force  and  power  to  it  in  this 
one  passage  of  her  life. 

“What  is  this?”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  breathless  and  confused.  “What  is  the 
matter  ? Lucie  ! Manette  ! What  has  happened  ? What  has  brought  you  here  ? 
What  is  it  ?” 

With  the  look  fixed  upon  him,  in  her  paleness  and  wildness,  she  panted  out  in 
his  arms,  imploringly,  “ O my  dear  friend  ! My  husband  1” 

“Your  husband,  Lucie  ?” 

ft  PViarlpc;  ” 

“What  of  Charles?” 

“ Here.” 

“ Here,  in  Paris  ?” 

“ Has  been  here  some  days — three  or  four — I don’t  know  how  many — I can’t 
collect  my  thoughts.  An  errand  of  generosity  brought  him  here  unknown  to  us  ; 
he  was  stopped  at  the  barrier,  and  sent  to  prison.” 

The  old  man  uttered  an  irrepressible  cry.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  the  bell 
of  the  great  gate  rang  again,  and  a loud  noise  of  feet  and  voices  came  pouring 
into  the  court-yard. 

“ What  is  that  noise  ?”  said  the  Doctor,  turning  towards  the  window. 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


*5* 


“Don’t  look  !”  cried  Mr.  Lorry.  “Don’t  look  out!  Manette,  for  your  lifer 
don’t  touch  the  blind  !” 

The  Doctor  turned,  with  his  hand  upon  the  fastening  of  the  window,  and  said, 
with  a cool,  bold  smile  : 

“ My  dear  friend,  I have  a charmed  life  in  this  city.  I have  been  a Bastille 
prisoner.  There  is  no  patriot  in  Paris — in  Paris  ? In  France — who,  knowing  me 
to  have  been  a prisoner  in  the  Bastille,  would  touch  me,  except  to  overwhelm  me 
with  embraces,  or  carry  me  in  triumph.  My  old  pain  has  given  me  a power  that 
has  brought  us  through  the  barrier,  and  gained  us  news  of  Charles  there,  and 
brought  us  here.  I knew  it  would  be  so ; I knew  I could  help  Charles  out  of 
all  danger;  I told  Lucie  so. — What  is  that  noise?”  His  hand  was  again  upon 
the  window. 

“Don’t  look!”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  absolutely  desperate.  “No,  Lucie,  my  dear, 
nor  you  !”  He  got  his  arm  round  her,  and  held  her.  “ Don’t  be  so  terrified,  my 
love.  I solemnly  swear  to  you  that  I know  of  no  harm  having  happened  to 
Charles ; that  I had  no  suspicion  even  of  his  being  in  this  fatal  place.  What 
prison  is  he  in  ?” 

“ La  Force  ! ” 

“ La  Lorce  ! Lucie,  my  child,  if  ever  you  were  brave  and  serviceable  in  your 
life  —and  you  were  always  both — you  will  compose  yourself  now,  to  do  exactly  as 
I bid  you-;  for  more  depends  upon  it  than  you  can  think,  or  I can  say.  There  is 
no  help  for  you  in  any  action  on  vour  part  to-night ; you  cannot  possibly  stir  out. 
I say  this,  because  what  I must  bid  you  to  do  for  Charles’s  sake,  is  the  hardest 
thing  to  do  of  all.  You  must  instantly  be  obedient,  still,  and  quiet.  You  must 
let  me  put  you  in  a room  at  the  back  here.  You  must  leave  your  father  and  me 
alone  for  two  minutes,  and  as  there  are  Life  and  Death  in  the  world  you  must  not 
delay.” 

“ I will  be  submissive  to  you.  I see  in  your  face  that  you  know  I can  dc 
nothing  else  than  this.  I know  you  are  true.” 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  hurried  her  into  his  room,  and  turned  the  key ; 
then,  came  hurrying  back  to  the  Doctor,  and  opened  the  window  and  partly 
opened  the  blind,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the  Doctor’s  arm,  and  looked  out  with 
him  into  the  court-yard. 

Looked  out  upon  a throng  of  men  and  women  : not  enough  in  number,  or  near 
enough,  to  fill  the  court-yard  : not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  in  all.  The  people  in 
possession  of  the  house  had  let  them  in  at  the  gate,  and  they  had  rushed  into  work 
at  the  grindstone ; it  had  evidently  been  set  up  there  for  their  purpose,  as  in  a 
convenient  and  retired  spot. 

But,  such  awful  workers,  and  such  awful  work  ! 

The  grindstone  had  a double  handle,  and,  turning  at  it  madly  were  two  men, 
whose  faces,  as  their  long  hair  flapped  back  when  the  whirlings  of  the  grindstone 
brought  their  faces  up,  were  more  horrible  and  cruel  than  the  visages  of  the  wildest 
savages  in  their  most  barbarous  disguise.  False  eyebrows  and  false  moustaches 
were  stuck  upon  them,  and  their  hideous  countenances  were  all  bloody  and  sweaty, 
and  all  awry  with  howling,  and  all  staring  and  glaring  with  beastly  excitement 
and  want  of  sleep.  As  these  ruffians  turned  and  turned,  their  matted  locks  now 
flung  forward  over  their  eyes,  now  flung  backward  over  their  necks,  some  women 
held  wine  to  their  mouths  that  they  might  drink ; and  what  with  dropping  blood, 
and  what  with  dropping  wine,  and  what  with  the  stream  of  sparks  struck  out  of 
the  stone,  all  their  wicked  atmosphere  seemed  gore  and  fire.  The  eye  could  not 
detect  one  creature  in  the  group  free  from  the  smear  of  blood.  Shouldering  one 
another  to  get  next  at  the  sharpening-stone,  were  men  stripped  to  the  waist,  with 
tire  stain  all  over  their  limbs  and  bodies  ; men  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  with  the  stain 


The  Grindstone  and  the  Bastille  Prisoner. 


*53 


'jpon  those  rags  ; men  devilishly  set  off  with  spoils  of  women’s  lace  and  silk  and 
ribbon,  with  the  stain  dyeing  those  trifles  through  and  through.  Hatchets,  knives, 
bayonets,  swords,  all  brought  to  be  sharpened,  were  all  red  with  it.  Some  of  the 
hacked  swords  were  tied  to  the  w rists  of  those  who  carried  them,  with  strips  of 
linen  and  fragments  of  dress  : ligatures  vaiious  in  kind,  but  all  deep  of  the  one 
colour.  And  as  the  frantic  wielders  of  these  weapons  snatched  them  from  the 
stream  of  sparks  and  tore  away  into  the  streets,  the  same  red  hue  was  red  in  theii 
frenzied  eyes ; — eyes  which  any  unbrutalised  beholder  would  have  given  twrenty 
years  of  life,  to  petrify  with  a well-directed  gun. 

A.11  this  was  seen  in  a moment,  as  the  vision  of  a drowning  man,  or  of  any 
human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass,  could  see  a world  if  it  were  there.  They 
drew  back  from  the  window,  and  the  Doctor  looked  for  explanation  in  his  friend ’a 
ashy  face. 

“They  are,”  Mr.  Lorry  whispered  the  words,  glancing  fearfully  round  at  the 
locked  room,  “murdering  the  prisoners.  If  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say  ; if  you 
really  have  the  powTer  you  think  you  have — as  I believe  you  have — make  yourself 
known  to  these  devils,  and  get  taken  to  La  Force.  It  may  be  too  late,  I don’t 
know,  but  let  it  not  be  a minute  later  ! ” 

Doctor  Manette  pressed  his  hand,  hastened  bareheaded  out  of  the  room,  and 
Was  in  the  court-yard  when  Mr.  Lorry  regained  the  blind. 

His  streaming  white  hair,  his  remarkable  face,  and  the  impetuous  confidence 
of  his  manner,  as  he  put  the  weapons  aside  like  water,  carried  him  in  an  instant 
to  the  heart  of  the  concourse  at  the  stone.  For  a few  moments  there  was  a pause, 
and  a hurry,  and  a murmur,  and  the  unintelligible  sound  of  his  voice  ; and  then 
Mr.  Lorry  saw’  him,  surrounded  by  all,  and  in  the  midst  of  a line  of  twenty  men  long, 
all  linked  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  hand  to  shoulder,  hurried  out  with  cries  of 
• — “ Live  the  Bastille  prisoner  ! Help  for  the  Bastille  prisoner’s  kindred  in  La 
Force  ! Room  for  the  Bastille  prisoner  in  front  there  ! Save  the  prisoner  Evre- 
monde  at  La  Force  ! ” and  a thousand  answering  shouts. 

He  closed  the  lattice  again  with  a fluttering  heart,  closed  the  window  and  the 
curtain,  hastened  to  Lucie,  and  told  her  that  her  father  was  assisted  by  the 
people,  and  gone  in  search  of  her  husband.  He  found  her  child  and  Miss  Pross 
with  her ; but,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  be  surprised  by  their  appearance  until 
a long  time  afterwards,  when  he  sat  w7atching  them  in  such  quiet  as  the  night  knew. 

Lucie  had,  by  that  time,  fallen  into  a stupor  on  the  floor  at  his  feet,  clinging  to 
his  hand.  Miss  Pross  had  laid  the  child  down  on  his  own  bed,  and  her  head  had 
gradually  fallen  on  the  pillow  beside  her  pretty  charge.  O the  long,  long  night, 
with  the  moans  of  the  poor  wife  ! And  O the  long,  long  night,  with  no  return  of 
her  father  and  no  tidings  ! 

Twice  more  in  the  darkness  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded,  and  the  irruption 
was  repeated,  and  the  grindstone  whirled  and  spluttered.  “ What  is  it?”  cried 
Lucie,  affrighted.  “ Hush  ! The  soldiers’  swords  are  sharpened  there,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry.  “The  place  is  national  property  now,  and  used  as  a kind  of  armoury, 
my  love.” 

Twice  more  in  all ; but,  the  last  spell  of  work  was  feeble  and  fitful.  Soon 
afterwards  the  day  began  to  dawn,  and  he  softly  detached  himself  from  the 
clasping  hand,  and  cautiously  looked  out  again.  A man,  so  besmeared  that  he 
might  have  been  a sorely  wounded  soldier  creeping  back  to  consciousness  on  a 
field  of  slain,  was  rising  from  the  pavement  by  the  side  of  the  grindstone,  and 
looking  about  him  with  a vacant  air.  Shortly,  this  worn-out  murderer  descried  in 
the  imperfect  light  one  of  the  carriages  of  Monseigneur,  and,  staggering  to  that 
gorgeous  vehicle,  climbed  in  at  the  door,  and  shut  himself  up  to  take  his  rest  on 
its  dainty  cushions. 


»S4 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


The  great  grindstone,  Earth,  had  turned  when  Mr.  Lorry  looked  out  again,  and 
/he  sun  was  red  on  the  court-yard.  But,  the  lesser  grindstone  stood  alone  there 
in  the  calm  morning  air,  with  a red  upon  it  that  the  sun  had  never  given,  and 
would  never  take  away. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SHADOW. 

One  of  the  first  considerations  which  arose  in  the  business  mind  of  Mr.  Lorry 
when  business  hours  came  round,  was  this  : — that  he  had  no  right  to  imperil 
Tellson’s  by  sheltering  the  wife  of  an  emigrant  prisoner  under  the  Bank  roof. 
His  own  possessions,  safety,  life,  he  would  have  hazarded  for  Lucie  and  her  child, 
without  a moment’s  demur  ; but  the  great  trust  he  held  was  not  his  own,  and  as 
to  that  business  charge  he  was  a strict  man  of  business. 

At  first,  his  mind  reverted  to  Defarge,  and  he  thought  of  finding  out  the  wine- 
shop again  and  taking  counsel  with  its  master  in  reference  to  the  safest  dwelling- 
place  in  the  distracted  state  of  the  city.  But,  the  same  consideration  that  suggested 
him,  repudiated  him  ; he  lived  in  the  most  violent  Quarter,  and  doubtless  was 
influential  there,  and  deep  in  its  dangerous  workings. 

Noon  coming,  and  the  Doctor  not  returning,  and  every  minute’s  delay  tending 
to  compromise  Tellson’s,  Mr.  Lorry  advised  with  Lucie.  She  said  that  her  father 
had  spoken  of  hiring  a lodging  for  a short  term,  in  that  Quarter,  near  the  Banking- 
house.  As  there  was  no  business  objection  to  this,  and  as  he  foresaw  that  even 
if  it  were  all  well  with  Charles,  and  he  were  to  be  released,  he  could  not  hope  to 
leave  the  city,  Mr.  Lorry  went  out  in  quest  of  such  a lodging,  and  found  a suitable 
one,  high  up  in  a removed  by-street  where  the  closed  blinds  in  all  the  other 
windows  of  a high  melancholy  square  of  buildings  marked  deserted  homes. 

To  this  lodging  he  at  once  removed  Lucie  and  her  child,  and  Miss  Pross  : 
giving  them  what  comfort  he  could,  and  much  more  than  he  had  himself.  He 
left  Jerry  with  them,  as  a figure  to  fill  a doorway  that  would  bear  considerable 
knocking  on  the  head,  and  returned  to  his  own  occupations.  A disturbed  and 
doleful  mind  he  brought  to  bear  upon  them,  and  slowly  and  heavily  the  day 
lagged  on  with  him. 

It  wore  itself  out,  and  wore  him  out  with  it,  until  the  Bank  closed.  He  was 
again  alone  in  his  room  of  the  previous  night,  considering  what  to  do  next,  when 
he  heard  a foot  upon  the  stair,  In  a few  moments,  a man  stood  in  his  presence, 
who,  with  a keenly  observant  look  at  him,  addressed  him  by  his  name. 

‘ 4 Your  servant,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “Do  you  know  me  ?” 

He  was  a strongly  made  man  with  dark  curling  hair,  from  forty-five  to  fifty 
years  of  age.  For  answer  he  repeated,  without  any  change  of  emphasis,  the 
words : 

“ Do  you  know  me  ?” 

li  I have  seen  you  somewhere.” 

“ Perhaps  at  my  wine-shop  ?” 

Much  interested  and  agitated,  Mr.  Lorry  said : “ You  come  from  Doctor 
Manette  ?” 

“ Yes.  I come  from  Doctor  Manette.” 

“ And  what  says  he  ? What  does  he  send  me  ?” 

Defarge  gave  into  his  anxious  hand,  an  open  scrap  of  paper.  It  bore  the  wordf 
In  the  Doctor’s  writing  : 


Madame  Defarge  ever  knitting . 


*55 


“ Charles  is  safe,  but  I cannot  safely  leave  this  place  yet.  I have  obtained  the 
favour  that  the  bearer  has  a short  note  from  Charles  to  his  wife.  Let  the  bearer 
see  his  wife.’, 

It  was  dated  from  La  Force,  within  an  hour. 

“Will  you  accompany  me,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  joyfully  relieved  after  reading  this 
note  aloud,  “ to  where  his  wife  resides  ?” 

“Yes,”  returned  Defarge. 

Scarcely  noticing  as  yet,  in  what  a curiously  reserved  and  mechanical  way 
Defarge  spoke,  Mr.  Lorry  put  on  his  hat  and  they  went  down  into  the  court-yard. 
There,  they  found  two  women  ; one,  knitting. 

“Madame  Defarge,  surely!”  said  Mr.  Lony,  who  had  left  her  in  exactly  the 
Same  attitude  some  seventeen  years  ago. 

“ It  is  she,”  observed  her  husband. 

“ Does  Madame  go  with  us  ?”  inquired  Mr.  Lorry,  seeing  that  she  moved  as 
they  moved. 

“ Yes.  That  she  may  be  able  to  recognise  the  faces  and  know  the  persons.  It 
is  for  their  safety.” 

Beginning  to  be  struck  by  Defarge’s  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  dubiously  at 
him,  and  led  the  way.  Both  the  women  followed ; the  second  woman  being  The 
Vengeance. 

They  passed  through  the  intervening  streets  as  quickly  as  they  might,  ascended 
the  staircase  of  the  new  domicile,  were  admitted  by  Jerry,  and  found  Lucie  weep- 
ing, alone.  She  was  thrown  into  a transport  by  the  tidings  Mr.  Lorry  gave  her 
of  her  husband,  and  clasped  the  hand  that  delivered  his  note — little  thinking 
what  it  had  been  doing  near  him  in  the  night,  and  might,  but  for  a chance,  have 
done  to  him. 

“ Dearest, — Take  courage.  I am  well,  and  your  father  has  influence  around 
me.  You  cannot  answer  this.  Kiss  our  child  for  me.  ” 

That  was  all  the  writing.  It  was  so  much,  however,  to  her  who  received  it, 
that  she  turned  from  Defarge  to  his  wife,  and  kissed  one  of  the  hands  that  knitted. 
It  was  a passionate,  loving,  thankful,  womanly  action,  but  the  hand  made  no  re- 
sponse— dropped  cold  and  heavy,  and  took  to  its  knitting  again. 

There  was  something  in  its  touch  that  gave  Lucie  a check.  She  stopped  in  the 
act  of  putting  the  note  in  her  bosom,  and,  with  her  hands  yet  at  her  neck,  looked 
terrified  at  Madame  Defarge.  Madame  Defarge  met  the  lifted  eyebrows  and  fore- 
head with  a cold,  impassive  stare. 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  striking  in  to  explain  ; “ there  are  frequent  risings 
in  the  streets  ; and,  although  it  is  not  likely  they  will  ever  trouble  you,  Madame 
Defarge  wishes  to  see  those  whom  she  has  the  power  to  protect  at  such 
times,  to  the  end  that  she  may  know  them — that  she  may  identify  them.  I 
believe,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  halting  in  his  reassuring  words,  as  the  stony 
manner  of  all  the  three  impressed  itself  upon  him  more  and  more,  “ I state  the 
case,  Citizen  Defarge  ?” 

Defarge  looked  gloomily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  no  other  answer  than  a gruff 
sound  of  acquiescence. 

“You  had  better,  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  doing  all  he  could  to  propitiate,  by 
tone  and  manner,  “ have  the  dear  child  here,  and  our  good  Pross.  Our  good 
Pross,  Defarge,  is  an  English  lady,  and  knows  no  French.” 

The  lady  in  question,  whose  rooted  conviction  that  she  was  more  than  a match 
(or  any  foreigner,  was  not  to  be  shaken  by  distress  and  danger,  appeared  with 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


156 

folded  arms,  and  observed  in  English  to  The  Vengeance,  whom  hfcv  eyes  first  en- 
countered, “ Well,  I am  sure,  Boldface  ! I hope  you  are  pretty  well !”  She  al<=o 
bestowed  a British  cough  on  Madame  Defarge  ; but,  neither  of  the  two  took 
much  heed  of  her. 

“ Is  that  his  child  ?”  said  Madame  Defarge,  stopping  in  her  work  for  the  firs* 
time,  and  pointing  her  knitting-needle  at  little  Lucie  as  if  it  were  the  finger  of 
Fate. 

“ Yes,  madame,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry;  “this  is  our  poor  prisoner’s  darling 
daughter,  and  only  child.” 

The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame  Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  to  fall  so 
threatening  dnd  dark  on  the  child,  that  her  mother  instinctively  kneeled  on  the 
ground  beside  her,  and  held  her  to  her  breast.  The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame 
Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  then  to  fall,  threatening  and  dark,  on  both  the 
mother  and  the  child. 

“ It  is  enough,  my  husband,”  said  Madame  Defarge.  “ I have  seen  them.  We 
may  go.” 

But,  the  suppressed  manner  had  enough  of  menace  in  it — not  visible  and  pre- 
sented, but  indistinct  and  withheld — to  alarm  Lucie  into  saying,  as  she  laid  her 
appealing  hand  on  Madame  Defarge’s  dress  : 

“ You  will  be  good  to  my  poor  husband.  You  will  do  him  no  harm.  You  will 
help  me  to  see  him  if  you  can  ?” 

“Your  husband  is  not  my  business  here,”  returned  Madame  Defarge,  looking 
down  at  her  with  perfect  composure.  “ It  is  the  daughter  of  your  father  who  is 
my  business  here.” 

“For  my  sake,  then,  be  merciful  to  my  husband.  For  my  child’s  sake  ! She 
will  put  her  hands  together  and  pray  you  to  be  merciful.  We  are  more  afraid  of 
you  than  of  these  others.” 

Madame  Defarge  received  it  as  a compliment,  and  looked  at  her  husband 
Defarge,  who  had  been  uneasily  biting  his  thumb-nail  and  looking  at  her,  collected 
his  face  into  a sterner  expression. 

“ What  is  it  that  your  husband  says  in  that  little  letter  ?”  asked  Madame 
Defarge,  with  a lowering  smile.  “Influence;  he  says  something  touching  in- 
fluence ?” 

“ That  my  father,”  said  Lucie,  hurriedly  taking  the  paper  from  her  breast,  but 
with  her  alarmed  eyes  on  her  questioner  and  not  on  it,  “ has  much  influence 
around  him.” 

“ Surely  it  will  release  him  !”  said  Madame  Defarge.  “ Let  it  do  so.” 

“ As  a wife  and  mother,”  cried  Lucie,  most  earnestly,  “ I implore  you  to  have 
pity  on  me  and  not  to  exercise  any  power  that  you  possess,  against  my  innocent 
husband,  but  to  use  it  in  his  behalf.  O sister-woman,  think  of  me.  As  a wife 
and  mother  !” 

Madame  Defarge  looked,  coldly  as  ever,  at  the  suppliant,  and  said,  turning  to 
her  friend  The  Vengeance  : 

“ The  wives  and  mothers  we  have  been  used  to  see,  since  we  were  as  little  as 
this  child,  and  much  less,  have  not  been  greatly  considered  ? We  have  known 
their  husbands  and  fathers  laid  in  prison  and  kept  from  them,  often  enough  ? All 
our  lives,  we  have  seen  our  sister- women  suffer,  in  themselves  and  in  their  children, 
poverty,  nakedness,  hunger,  thirst,  sickness,  misery,  oppression  and  neglect  of  all 
kinds  ?” 

“We  have  seen  nothing  else,”  returned  The  Vengeance. 

“ We  have  borne  this  a long  time,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  turning  her  eyes 
again  upon  Lucie.  “ Judge  you  ! Is  it  likely  that  the  trouble  of  one  wife  and 
mother  would  be  much  to  us  now  ?” 


The  Doctor , powerful 


*57 


She  resumed  her  knitting  and  went  out.  The  Vengeance  followed.  Defarge 
went  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

“Courage,  my  dear  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  he  raised  her.  “Courage, 
courage ! So  far  all  goes  well  with  us — much,  much  better  than  it  has  of  late 
gone  with  many  poor  souls.  Cheer  up,  and  have  a thankful  heart.” 

“ I am  not  thankless,  I hope,  but  that  dreadful  woman  seems  to  throw  a shadow 
on  me  and  on  all  my  hopes.” 

“Tut,  tut!”  said  Mr.  Lorry;  “what  is  this  despondency  in  the  brave  little 
breast  ? A shadow  indeed  ! No  substance  in  it,  Lucie.” 

But  the  shadow  of  the  manner  of  these  Defarges  was  dark  upon  himself,  for  all 
that,  and  in  his  secret  mind  it  troubled  him  greatly. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CALM  IN  STORM. 

Doctor  Manette  did  not  return  until  the  morning  of.  the  fourth  day  of  his 
absence.  So  much  of  what  had  happened  in  that  dreadful  time  as  could  be  kept 
from  the  knowledge  of  Lucie  was  so  well  concealed  from  her,  that  not  until  long 
afterwards,  when  France  and  she  were  far  apart,  did  she  know  that  eleven  hundred 
defenceless  prisoners  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  had  been  killed  by  the  populace  ; 
that  four  days  and  nights  had  been  darkened  by  this  deed  of  horror ; and  that 
the  air  around  her  had  been  tainted  by  the  slain.  She  only  knew  that  there  had 
been  an  attack  upon  the  prisons,  that  all  political  prisoners  had  been  in  danger, 
and  that  some  had  been  dragged  out  by  the  crowd  and  murdered. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  the  Doctor  communicated  under  an  injunction  of  secrecy  on  which 
he  had  no  need  to  dwell,  that  the  crowd  had  taken  him  through  a scene  of  carnage 
to  the  prison  of  La  Force.  That,  in  the  prison  he  had  found  a self-appointed  Tri- 
bunal sitting,  before  which  the  prisoners  were  brought  singly,  and  by  which  they  were 
rapidly  ordered  to  be  put  forth  to  be  massacred,  or  to  be  released,  or  (in  a few  cases) 
to  be  sent  back  to  their  cells.  That,  presented  by  his  conductors  to  this  Tribunal, 
he  had  announced  himself  by  name  and  profession  as  having  been  for  eighteen 
years  a secret  and  unaccused  prisoner  in  the  Bastille ; that,  one  of  the  body  so 
sitting  in  judgment  had  risen  and  identified  him,  and  that  this  man  was  Defarge. 

That,  hereupon  he  had  ascertained,  through  the  registers  on  the  table,  that  his 
son-in-law  was  among  the  living  prisoners,  and  had  pleaded  hard  to  the  Tribunal 
— of  whom  some  members  were  asleep  and  some  awake,  some  dirty  with  murder 
and  some  clean,  some  sober  and  some  not — for  his  life  and  liberty.  That,  in  the 
first  frantic  greetings  lavished  on  himself  as  a notable  sufferer  under  the  overthrown 
system,  it  had  been  accorded  to  him  to  have  Charles  Darnay  brought  before  the 
lawless  Court,  and  examined.  That,  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  being  at  once 
released,  when  the  tide  in  his  favour  met  with  some  unexplained  check  (not  intel- 
ligible to  the  Doctor),  which  led  to  a few  words  of  secret  conference.  That,  the 
man  sitting  as  President  had  then  informed  Doctor  Manette  that  the  prisoner 
must  remain  in  custody,  but  should,  for  his  sake,  be  held  inviolate  in  safe  custody. 
That,  immediately,  on  a signal,  the  prisoner  was  removed  to  the  interior  of  the 
prison  again  ; but,  that  he,  the  Doctor,  had  then  so  strongly  pleaded  for  permis- 
sion to  remain  and  assure  himself  that  his  son-in-law  was,  through  no  malice  or 
mischance,  delivered  to  the  concourse  whose  murderous  yells  outside  the  gate  had 
often  drowned  the  proceedings,  that  he  had  obtained  the  permission,  and  had 
remained  in  that  Dali  of  Blood  until  the  danger  was  over. 


r58 


A Tale  of  Tzuo  Cities. 


The  sights  he  had  seen  there,  with  brief  snatches  of  food  and  sleep  by  intervals, 
shall  remain  untold.  The  mad  joy  over  the  prisoners  who  w^re  saved,  had 
astounded  him  scarcely  less  than  the  mad  ferocity  against  those  who  were  cut  to 
pieces.  One  prisoner  there  was,  he  said,  who  had  been  discharged  into  the  street 
free,  but  at  whom  a mistaken  savage  had  thrust  a pike  as  he  passed  out.  Being 
besought  to  go  to  him  and  dress  the  wound,  the  Doctor  had  passed  out  at  the 
same  gate,  and  had  found  him  in  the  arms  of  a company  of  Samaritans,  who 
were  seated  on  the  bodies  of  their  victims.  With  an  inconsistency  as  monstrous 
as  anything  in  this  awful  nightmare,  they  had  helped  the  healer,  and  tended  the 
wounded  man  with  the  gentlest  solicitude — had  made  a litter  for  him  and  escorted 
him  carefully  from  the  spot — had  then  caught  up  their  weapons  and  plunged  anew 
into  a butchery  so  dreadful,  that  the  Doctor  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
and  swooned  away  in  the  midst  of  it. 

As  Mr.  Lorry  received  these  confidences,  and  as  he  watched  the  face  of  his 
friend  now  sixty-two  years  of  age,  a misgiving  arose  within  him  that  such 
dread  experiences  would  revive  the  old  danger.  But,  he  had  never  seen 
his  friend  in  his  present  aspect : he  had  never  at  all  known  him  in  his  pre- 
sent character.  For  the  first  time  the  Doctor  felt,  now,  that  his  suffering  was 
strength  and  power.  . For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  in  that  sharp  fire,  he  had 
slowly  forged  the  iron  which  could  break  the  prison  door  of  his  daughter’s  hus- 
band, and  deliver  him.  “ It  all  tended  to  a good  end,  my  friend  ; it  was  not  mere 
waste  and  ruin.  As  my  beloved  child  was  helpful  in  restoring  me  to  myself,  I 
will  be  helpful  now  in  restoring  the  dearest  part  of  herself  to  her  ,*  by  the  aid  of 
Heaven  I will  do  it !”  Thus,  Doctor  Manette.  And  when  Jarvis  Lorry  saw  the 
kindled  eyes,  the  resolute  face,  the  calm  strong  look  and  bearing  of  the  man 
whose  life  always  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  stopped,  like  a clock,  for  so  many 
years,  and  then  set  going  again  with  an  energy  which  had  lain  dormant  during  the 
cessation  of  its  usefulness,  he  believed. 

Greater  things  than  the  Doctor  had  at  that  time  to  contend  with,  would  have 
yielded  before  his  persevering  purpose.  While  he  kept  himself  in  his  place,  as 
a physician,  whose  business  was  with  all  degrees  of  mankind,  bond  and  free, 
rich  and  poor,  bad  and  good,  he  used  his  personal  influence  so  wisely,  that  he 
was  soon  the  inspecting  physician  of  three  prisons,  and  among  them  of  La  Force. 
He  could  now  assure  Lucie  that  her  husband  was  no  longer  confined  alone,  but 
was  mixed  with  the  general  body  of  prisoners  ; he  saw  her  husband  weekly,  and 
brought  sweet  messages  to  her,  straight  from  his  lips  ; sometimes  her  husband 
himself  sent  a letter  to  her  (though  never  by  the  Doctor’s  hand),  but  she  was 
rot  permitted  to  write  to  him  : for,  among  the  many  wild  suspicions  of  plots  in 
the  prisons,  the  wildest  of  all  pointed  at  emigrants  who  wTere  known  to  have 
made  friends  or  permanent  connections  abroad. 

This  new  life  of  the  Doctor’s  was  an  anxious  life,  no  doubt ; still,  the  sagacious 
Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  there  was  a new  sustaining  pride  in  it.  Nothing  unbecoming 
tinged  the  pride  ; it  was  a natural  and  worthy  one ; but  he  observed  it  as  a 
curiosity.  The  Doctor  knew,  that  up  to  that  time,  his  imprisonment  had  been 
associated  in  the  minds  of  his  daughter  and  his  friend,  with  his  personal  affliction, 
deprivation,  and  weakness.  Now  that  this  was  changed,  and  he  knew  himself  to 
be  invested  through  that  old  trial  with  forces  to  which  they  both  looked  for 
Charles’s  ultimate  safety  and  deliverance,  he  became  so  far  exalted  by  the  change, 
that  he  took  the  lead  and  direction,  and  required  them  as  the  weak,  to  trust  ">  him 
as  the  strong.  The  preceding  relative  positions  of  himself  and  Lucie  were 
reversed,  yet  only  as  the  liveliest  gratitude  and  affection  could  reverse  them,  for 
he  could  have  had  no  pride  but  in  rendering  some  service  to  her  who  had  rendered 
sc  much  to  him.  “ All  curious  to  see,”  thought  Mr.  Lorry,  in  his  amiably  shrewd 


The  New  Era  in  full  rush . 


*59 


way,  “but  all  natural  and  right ; so,  take  the  lead,  my  dear  friend,  and  keep  it; 
it  couldn’t  be  in  better  hands.” 

But,  though  the  Doctor  tried  hard,  and  never  ceased  trying,  to  get  Charles 
Darnay  set  at  liberty,  or  at  least  to  get  him  brought  to  trial,  the  public  current  of 
the  time  set  too  strong  and  fast  for  him.  The  new  era  began  ; the  king  was  tried, 
doomed,  and  beheaded  ; the  Republic  of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death, 
declared  for  victory  or  death  against  the  world  in  arms  ; the  black  flag  waved 
night  and  day  from  the  great  towers  of  Notre  Dame ; three  hundred  thousand 
men,  summoned  to  rise  against  the  tyrants  of  the  earth,  rose  from  all  the  varying 
soils  of  France,  as  if  the  dragon’s  teeth  had  been  sown  broadcast,  and  had  yielded 
fruit  equally  on  hill  and  plain,  on  rock,  in  gravel,  and  alluvial  mud,  under  the 
bright  sky  of  the  South  and  under  the  clouds  of  the  North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in 
the  vineyards  and  the  olive-grounds  and  among  the  cropped  grass  and  the  stubble 
of  the  corn,  along  the  fruitful  banks  of  the  broad  rivers,  and  in  the  sand  of  the  sea- 
shore. What  private  solicitude  could  rear  itself  against  the  deluge  of  the  Year 
One  of  Liberty — the  deluge  rising  from  below,  not  falling  from  above,  and  with 
the  windows  of  Heaven  shut,  not  opened  ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval  of  relenting  rest,  no  measure- 
ment of  time.  Though  days  and  nights  circled  as  regularly  as  when  time  was 
young,  and  the  evening  and  morning  were  the  first  day,  other  count  of  time  there 
was  uone.  Hold  of  it  was  lost  in  the  raging  fever  of  a nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever 
of  one  patient.  Now,  breaking  the  unnatural  silence  of  a whole  city,  the  execu- 
tioner showed  the  people  the  head  of  the  king — and  now,  it  seemed  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  the  head  of  his  fair  wife  which  had  had  eight  weary  months  of  im- 
prisoned widowhood  and  misery,  to  turn  it  grey. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  contradiction  which  obtains  in  all  such 
cases,  the  time  was  long,  while  it  flamed  by  so  fast.  A revolutionary  tribunal 
in  the  capital,  and  forty  or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  committees  all  over  the 
land  ; a law  of  the  Suspected,  which  struck  away  all  security  for  liberty  or  life,  and 
delivered  over  any  good  and  innocent  person  to  any  bad  and  guilty  one ; prisons 
gorged  with  people  who  had  committed  no  offence,  and  could  obtain  no  hearing; 
these  things  became  the  established  order  and  nature  of  appointed  things,  and 
seemed  to  be  ancient  usage  before  they  were  many  weeks  old.  Above  all,  one 
hideous  figure  grew  as  familiar  as  if  it  had  been  before  the  general  gaze  from  the 
foundations  of  the  world — the  figure  of  the  sharp  female  called  La  Guillotine. 

It  was  the  popular  theme  for  jests ; it  was  the  best  cure  for  headache,  it  infalli- 
olv  prevented  the  hair  from  turning  grey,  it  imparted  a peculiar  delicacy  to  the 
complexion,  it  was  the  National  Razor  which  shaved  close : who  kissed  La 
Guillotine,  looked  through  the  little  window  and  sneezed  into  the  sack.  It  was 
the  sign  of  the  regeneration  of  the  human  race.  It  superseded  the  Cross.  Models 
of  it  were  worn  on  breasts  from  which  the  Cross  was  discarded,  and  it  was  bowed 
down  to  and  believed  in  where  the  Cross  was  denied. 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the  ground  it  most  polluted,  were  a 
rotten  red.  It  was  taken  to  pieces,  like  a toy -puzzle  for  a young  Devil,  and  was 
put  together  again  when  the  occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed  the  eloquent,  struck 
down  the  powerful,  abolished  the  beautiful  and  good.  Twenty-two  friends  of 
high  public  mark,  twenty-one  living  and  one  dead,  it  had  lopped  the  heads  off,  in 
one  morning,  in  a?  many  minutes.  The  name  of  the  strong  man  of  Old  Scripture 
had  descended  to  tne  chief  functionary  who  worked  it ; but,  so  armed,  he  was 
stronger  than  his  namesake,  and  blinder,  and  tore  away  the  gates  of  God’s  own 
Temple  every  day. 

Among  these  terrors,  and  the  brood  belonging  to  them,  the  Doctor  Walked 
with  a steady  head : confident  in  his  power,  cautiously  persistent  in  his  end, 


l6o 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


never  doubting  that  he  would  save  Lucie’s  husband  at  last.  Yet  the  current 
of  the  time  swept  by,  so  strong  and  deep,  and  carried  the  time  away  so  fiercely, 
that  Charles  had  Jain  in  prison  one  year  and  three  months  when  the  Doctor 
was  thus  steady  and  confident.  So  much  more  wicked  and  distracted  had 
ihe  Revolution  grown  in  that  December  month,  that  the  rivers  of  the  South 
were  encumbered  with  the  bodies  of  the  violently  drowned  by  night,  and 
prisoners  were  shot  in  lines  and  squares  under  the  southern  wintry  sun.  Still,  the 
Doctor  walked  among  the  terrors  with  a steady  head.  No  man  better  known  than 
he,  in  Paris  at  that  day  ; no  man  in  a stranger  situation.  Silent,  humane,  indis- 
pensable in  hospital  and  prison,  using  his  art  equally  among  assassins  and  victims, 
he  was  a man  apart.  In  the  exercise  of  his  skill,  the  appearance  and  the  story  of 
the  Bastille  Captive  removed  him  from  all  other  men.  He  was  not  suspected  or 
brought  in  question,  any  more  than  if  he  had  indeed  been  recalled  to  life  some 
eighteen  years  before,  or  were  a Spirit  moving  among  mortals. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WOOD-SAWYER. 

One  year  and  three  months.  During  all  that  time  Lucie  was  never  sure,  fron 
hour  to  hour,  but  that  the  Guillotine  would  strike  off  her  husband’s  head  next 
day.  Every  day,  through  the  stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now  jolted  heavily,  filled 
with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls ; bright  women,  brown-haired,  black-haired,  and 
grey  ; youths  ; stalwart  men  and  old  ; gentle  born  and  peasant  born  ; all  red  win*, 
for  La  Guillotine,  all  daily  brought  into  light  from  the  dark  cellars  of  the  loath  • 
some  prisons,  and  carried  to  her  through  the  streets  to  slake  her  devouring  thirst 
Liberty,  equality,  fraternity,  or  death ; — the  last,  much  the  easiest  to  bestow,  0 
Guillotine ! 

If  the  suddenness  of  her  calamity,  and  the  whirling  wheels  of  the  time  had 
stunned  the  Doctor’s  daughter  into  awaiting  the  result  in  idle  despair,  it  would 
but  have  been  with  her  as  it  was  with  many.  But,  from  the  hour  when  she  had 
taken  the  white  head  to  her  fresh  young  bosom  in  the  garret  of  Saint  Antoine, 
she  had  been  true  to  her  duties.  She  was  truest  to  them  in  the  season  of  trial,  as 
all  the  quietly  loyal  and  good  will  always  be. 

As  soon  as  they  were  established  in  their  new  residence,  and  her  father  had 
entered  on  the  routine  of  his  avocations,  she  arranged  the  little  household  as 
exactly  as  if  her  husband  had  been  there.  Everything  had  its  appointed  place 
and  its  appointed  time.  Little  Lucie  she  taught,  as  regularly,  as  if  they  had  all 
been  united  in  their  English  home.  The  slight  devices  with  which  she  cheated 
herself  into  the  show  of  a belief  that  they  would  soon  be  reunited — the  little  prepara- 
tions for  his  speedy  return,  the  setting  aside  of  his  chair  and  his  books — these, 
and  the  solemn  prayer  at  night  for  one  dear  prisoner  especially,  among  the  many 
unhappy  souls  in  prison  and  the  shadow  of  death — were  almost  the  only  outspoken 
reliefs  of  her  heavy  mind. 

She  did  not  greatly  alter  in  appearance.  The  plain  dark  dresses,  akin  to 
mourning  dresses,  which  she  and  her  child  wore,  were  as  neat  and  as  well  attended 
to  as  the  brighter  clothes  of  happy  days.  She  lost  her  colour,  and  the  old  and 
intent  expression  was  a constant,  not  an  occasional,  thing ; otherwise,  she 
remained  very  pretty  and  comely.  Sometimes,  at  night  on  kissing  her  father,  she 
would  burst  into  the  grief  she  had  repressed  all  day,  and  would  say  that  her  sole 
reliance,  under  Heaven,  was  on  him.  He  always  resolutely  answered  : “ Nothing 


The  Prison  Window . 1 6 1 


*an  happen  to  him  without  my  knowledge,  and  I know  that  I can  save  him, 
Lucie.” 

They  had  not  made  the  round  of  their  changed  life  many  weeks,  when  her  father 
said  to  her,  on  coming  home  one  evening  : 

“ My  dear,  there  is  an  upper  window  in  the  prison,  to  which  Charles  can  some- 
times gain  access  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  When  he  can  get  to  it — which 
iepends  on  many  uncertainties  and  incidents — he  might  see  you  in  the  street,  he 
thinks,  if  you  stood  in  a certain  place  that  I can  show  you.  But  you  will  not  be 
able  to  see  him,  my  poor  child,  and  even  if  you  could,  it  would  be  unsafe  for  you 
to  make  a sign  of  recognition.” 

“ O show  me  the  place,  my  father,  and  I will  go  there  every  day.” 

From  that  time,  in  all  weathers,  she  waited  there  two  hours.  As  the  clock 
struck  two,  she  was  there,  and  at  four  she  turned  resignedly  away.  When  it  was 
not  too  wet  or  inclement  for  her  child  to  be  with  her,  they  went  together;  at  other 
times  she  was  alone  ; but,  she  never  missed  a single  day. 

It  was  the  dark  and  dirty  corner  of  a small  winding  street.  The  hovel  of  a 
cutter  of  wood  into  lengths  for  burning,  was  the  only  house  at  that  end  ; all  else 
was  wall.  On  the  third  day  of  her  being  there,  he  noticed  her. 

“ Good  day,  citizeness.” 

“ Good  day,  citizen.” 

This  mode  of  address  was  now  prescribed  by  decree.  It  had  been  established 
voluntarily  some  time  ago,  among  the  more  thorough  patriots  ; but,  was  now  law 
for  everybody. 

“ Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?” 

“ You  see  me,  citizen  !” 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  was  a little  man  with  a redundancy  of  gesture  (he  had 
once  been  a mender  of  roads),  cast  a glance  at  the  prison,  pointed  at  the  prison, 
and  putting  his  ten  fingers  before  his  face  to  represent  bars,  peeped  through  them 
jocosely. 

“ But  it’s  not  my  business,”  said  he.  And  went  on  sawing  his  wood. 

Next  day  he  was  looking  out  for  her,  and  accosted  her  the  moment  she 
appeared. 

“ What  ? Walking  here  again,  citizeness  ?” 

“Yes,  citizen.” 

“ Ah  ! A child  too  ! Your  mother,  is  it  not,  my  little  citizeness  ?” 

“ Do  I say  yes,  mamma  ?”  whispered  little  Lucie,  drawing  close  to  her. 

“Yes,  dearest;” 

“Yes,  citizen.” 

“ Ah  ! But  it’s  not  my  business.  My  work  is  my  business.  See  my  saw  ! I 
call  it  my  Little  Guillotine.  La,  la,  la  ; La,  la,  la  ! And  off  his  head  comes  !” 
The  billet  fell  as  he  spoke,  and  he  threw  it  into  a basket. 

“ I call  myself  the  Samson  of  the  firewood  guillotine.  See  here  again ! Loo, 
loo,  loo ; Loo,  loo,  loo  ! And  off  her  head  comes ! Now,  a child.  Tickle, 
tickle  ; Pickle,  pickle  ! And  off  its  head  comes.  All  the  family  !” 

Lucie  shuddered  as  he  threw  two  more  billets  into  his  basket,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  there  while  the  wood-sawyer  was  at  work,  and  not  be  in  his  sight. 
Thenceforth,  to  secure  his  good  will,  she  always  spoke  to  him  first,  and  often  gave 
him  drink-money,  which  he  readily  received. 

He  was  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  sometimes  when  she  had  quite  forgotten  him 
in  gazing  at  the  prison  roof  and  grates,  and  in  lifting  her  heart  up  to  her  husband, 
she  would  come  to  herself  to  find  him  looking  at  her,  with  his  knee  on  his  bench 
and  his  saw  stopped  in  its  work.  “ But  it’s  not  my  business  !”  he  would. generally 
say  a*-  thos«  times,  and  would  briskly  fall  to  his  sawing  again. 

U 


A Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities . 


162 


In  all  weathers,  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter,  in  the  bitter  winds  of  spring,  in 
the  hot  sunshine  of  summer,  in  the  rains  of  autumn,  and  again  in  the  snow  and  frost 
of  winter,  Lucie  passed  two  hours  of  every  day  at  this  place  ; and  every  day  on 
leaving  it,  she  kissed  the  prison  wall.  Her  husband  saw  her  (so  she  learned  from 
her  father)  it  might  be  once  in  live  or  six  times  : it  might  be  twice  or  thrice  run- 
ning : it  might  be,  not  for  a week  or  a fortnight  together.  It  was  enough  that  he 
could  and  did  see  her  when  the  chances  served,  and  on  that  possibility  she  would 
have  waited  out  the  day,  seven  days  a week. 

These  occupations  brought  her  round  to  the  December  month,  wherein  her 
father  walked  among  the  terrors  with  a steady  head.  On  a lightly-snowing  after- 
noon she  arrived  at  the  usual  corner.  It  was  a day  of  some  wild  rejoicing,  and  a 
festival.  She  had  seen  the  houses,  as  she  came  along,  decorated  with  little  pikes, 
and  with  little  red  caps  stuck  upon  them ; also,  with  tricoloured  ribbons ; also, 
with  the  standard  inscription  (tricoloured  letters  were  the  favourite),  Republic 
One  and  Indivisible.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ! 

The  miserable  shop  of  the  wood-sawyer  was  so  small,  that  its  whole  surface 
furnished  very  indifferent  space  for  this  legend.  He  had  got  somebody  to  scrawl 
it  up  for  him,  however,  who  had  squeezed  Death  in  with  most  inappropriate  diffi- 
culty. On  his  house-top,  he  displayed  pike  and  cap,  as  a good  citizen  must,  and 
in  a window  he  had  stationed  his  saw  inscribed  as  his  “ Little  Sainte  Guillotine  ” 
• — for  the  great  sharp  female  was  by  that  time  popularly  canonised.  His  shop  was 
shut  and  he  was  not  there,  which  was  a relief  to  Lucie,  and  left  her  quite  alone. 

But,  he  was  not  far  off,  for  presently  she  heard  a troubled  movement  and  a 
shouting  coming  along,  which  filled  her  with  fear.  A moment  afterwards,  and  a 
throng  of  people  came  pouring  round  the  corner  by  the  prison  wall,  in  the  midst 
of  whom  was  the  wood-sawyer  hand  in  hand  with  The  Vengeance.  There  could 
not  be  fewer  than  five  hundred  people,  and  they  were  dancing  like  five  thousand 
demons.  There  was  no  other  music  than  their  own  singing.  They  danced  to  the 
popular  Revolution  song,  keeping  a ferocious  time  that  was  like  a gnashing  of  teeth 
in  unison.  Men  and  women  danced  together,  women  danced  together,  men 
danced  together,  as  hazard  had  brought  them  together.  At  first,  they  were  a 
mere  storm  of  coarse  red  caps  and  coarse  woollen  rags  ; but,  as  they  filled  the 
place,  and  stopped  to  dance  about  Lucie,  some  ghastly  apparition  of  a dance-figure 
gone  raving  mad  arose  among  them.  They  advanced,  retreated,  struck  at  one 
another’s  hands,  clutched  at  one  another’s  heads,  spun  round  alone,  caught  one 
another  and  spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of  them  dropped.  While  those  were 
down,  the  rest  linked  hand  in  hand,  and  all  spun  round  together  : then  the  ring 
broke,  and  in  separate  rings  of  two  and  four  they  turned  and  turned  until  the}'  all 
stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck,  clutched,  and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the 
spin,  and  all  spun  round  another  way.  Suddenly  they  stopped  again,  paused, 
struck  out  the  time  afresh,  formed  into  lines  the  width  of  the  public  way,  and, 
with  their  heads  low  down  and  their  hands  high  up,  swooped  screaming  off.  No 
fight  could  have  been  half  so  terrible  as  this  dance.  It  was  so  emphatically  a 
fallen  sport — a something,  once  innocent,  delivered  over  to  all  devilry — a healthy 
pastime  changed  into  a means  of  angering  the  blood,  bewildering  the  senses, 
and  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace  a-  was  visible  in  it,  made  it  the  uglier,  show- 
ing how  warped  and  perverted  all  things  good  by  nature  were  become.  The 
maidenly  bosom  bared  to  this,  the  pretty  almost-child’s  head  thus  distracted,  the 
ielicate  foot  mincing  in  this  slough  of  blood  and  dirt,  were  types  of  the  disjointed 
time. 

This  was  the  Carmagnole.  As  it  passed,  leaving  Lucie  frightened  and  be- 
wildered, in  the  doorway  of  the  wood-sawyer’s  house,  the  feathery  snow  fell  as 
quietly  and  lay  as  white  and  soft,  as  if  it  had  nevei>*been. 


Summoned  for  To-morrow.  163 

“ O my  father ! ” for  he  stood  before  her  when  she  lifted  up  the  eyes  she  had 
momentarily  darkened  with  her  hand  ; “ such  a cruel,  bad  sight.” 

“ I know,  my  dear,  I know.  I have  seen  it  many  times.  Don’t  be  frightened ! 
Not  one  of  them  would  harm  you.” 

“ I am  not  frightened  for  myself,  my  father.  But  when  I think  of  my  husband, 
and  the  mercies  of  these  people ” 

“We  will  set  him  above  their  mercies  very  soon.  I left  him  climbing  to  the 
window,  and  I came  to  tell  you.  There  is  no  one  here  to  see.  You  may  kiss  your 
hand  towards  that  highest  shelving  roof.” 

“ I do  so,  father,  and  I send  him  my  Soul  with  it ! ” 

“ You  cannot  see  him,  my  poor  dear  ? ” 

“No,  father,”  said  Lucie,  yearning  and  weeping  as  she  kissed  her  hand, 

u no.” 

A footstep  in  the  snow.  Madame  Defarge.  “ I salute  you,  citizeness,”  from 
the  Doctor.  “ I salute  you,  citizen.”  This  in  passing.  Nothing  more.  Madame 
Defarge  gone,  like  a shadow  over  the  white  road. 

“Give  me  your  arm,  my  love.  Pass  from  here  with  an  air  of  cheerfulness  and 
courage,  for  his  sake.  That  was  well  done;”  they  had  left  the  spot;  “it  shall 
not  be  in  vain.  Charles  is  summoned  for  to-morrow.” 

“For  to-morrow  ! ” 

“ There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I am  well  prepared,  but  there  are  precautions  to  be 
taken,  that  could  not  be  taken  until  he  was  actually  summoned  before  the  Tribunal. 
He  has  not  received  the  notice  yet,  but  1 know  that  he  will  presently  be  summoned 
for  to-morrow,  and  removed  to  the  Conciergerie;  I have  timely  information.  You 
are  not  afraid  ? ” 

She  could  scarcely  answer,  “ I trust  in  you.” 

“ Do  so,  implicitly.  Your  suspense  is  nearly  ended,  my  darling;  he  shall  be 
restored  to  you  within  a few  hours  ; I have  encompassed  him  with  every  protec- 
tion. I must  see  Lorry.” 

He  stopped.  There  was  a heavy  lumbering  of  wheels  within  hearing.  They 
both  knew  too  well  what  it  meant.  One.  T wo.  Three.  Three  tumbrils  faring 
away  with  their  dread  loads  over  the  hushing  snow. 

“ I must  see  Lorry,”  the  Doctor  repeated,  turning  her  another  way. 

The  staunch  old  gentleman  was  still  in  his  trust ; had  never  left  it.  He  and 
his  books  were  in  frequent  requisition  as  to  property  confiscated  and  made  national. 
What  he  could  save  for  the  owners,  he  saved.  No  better  man  living  to  hold  fast 
by  what  Tellson’s  had  in  keeping,  and  to  hold  his  peace. 

A murky  red  and  yellow  sky,  and  a rising  mist  from  the  Seine,  denoted  the 
approach  of  darkness.  It  was  almost  dark  when  they  arrived  at  the  Bank.  The 
stately  residence  of  Monseigneur  was  altogether  blighted  and  deserted.  Above  a 
heap  of  dust  and  ashes  in  the  court,  ran  the  letters : National  Property.  Republic 
One  and  Indivisible.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ! 

Who  could  that  be  with  Mr.  Lorry — the  owner  of  the  riding-coat  upon  the 
chair — who  must  not  be  seen  ? From  whom  newly  arrived,  did  he  come  out, 
agitated  and  surprised,  to  take  his  favourite  in  his  arms  ? To  whom  did  he  appear 
to  repeat  her  faltering  words,  when,  raising  his  voice  and  turning  his  head  towards 
the  door  of  the  room  from  which  he  had  issued,  he  said ; “ Removed  to  the  Con 
ciergerie,  and  summoned  for  to-morrow  ? 99 


164 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TRIUMPH. 

The  dread  Tribunal  of  five  Judges,  Public  Prosecutor,  and  determined  Jury,  sat 
every  day.  Their  lists  went  forth  every  evening,  and  were  read  out  by  the  gaolers 
of  the  various  prisons  to  their  prisoners.  The  standard  gaoler-joke  was,  “Come 
out  and  listen  to  the  Evening  Paper,  you  inside  there  ! ” 

“ Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay ! ” 

So  at  last  began  the  Evening  Paper  at  La  Force. 

When  a name  was  called,  its  owner  stepped  apart  into  a spot  reserved  for  those 
who  were  announced  as  being  thus  fatally  recorded.  Charles  Evremonde,  called 
Darnay,  had  reason  to  know  the  usage ; he  had  seen  hundreds  pass  away  so. 

His  bloated  gaoler,  who  wore  spectacles  to  read  with,  glanced  over  them  to 
assure  himself  that  he  had  taken  his  place,  and  went  through  the  list,  making  a 
similar  short  pause  at  each  name.  There  were  twenty-three  names,  but  only 
twenty  were  responded  to ; for  one  of  the  prisoners  so  summoned  had  died  in  gaol 
and  been  forgotten,  and  two  had  already  been  guillotined  and  forgotten.  The  list 
was  read,  in  the  vaulted  chamber  where  Darnay  had  seen  the  associated  prisoners 
on  the  night  of  his  arrival.  Every  one  of  those  had  perished  in  the  massacre ; every 
human  creature  he  had  since  cared  for  and  parted  with,  had  died  on  the  scaffold. 

There  were  hurried  words  of  farewell  and  kindness,  but  the  parting  was  soon 
over.  It  was  the  incident  of  eveiy  day,  and  the  society  of  La  Force  were  engaged 
in  the  preparation  of  some  games  of  forfeits  and  a little  concert,  for  that  evening. 
They  crowded  to  the  grates  and  shed  tears  there ; but,  twenty  places  in  the  pro- 
jected entertainments  had  to  be  refilled,  and  the  time  was,  at  best,  short  to  t lie 
lock-up  hour,  when  the  common  rooms  and  corridors  would  be  delivered  over  to 
the  great  dogs  who  kept  watch  there  through  the  night.  The  prisoners  were  far 
from  insensible  or  unfeeling ; their  ways  arose  out  of  the  condition  of  the  time. 
Similarly,  though  with  a subtle  difference,  a species  of  fervour  or  intoxication, 
known,  without  doubt,  to  have  led  some  persons  to  brave  the  guillotine  unneces- 
sarily, and  to  die  by  it,  was  not  mere  boastfulness,  but  a wild  infection  of  the  wildly 
shaken  public  mind.  In  seasons  of  pestilence,  some  of  us  will  have  a secret  attrac- 
tion to  the  disease — a terrible  passing  inclination  to  die  of  it.  And  all  of  us  have 
like  wonders  hidden  in  our  breasts,  only  needing  circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

The  passage  to  the  Conciergerie  was  short  and  dark  ; the  night  in  its  vermin- 
haunted  cells  was  long  and  cold.  Next  day,  fifteen  prisoners  were  put  to  the  bar 
before  Charles  Damay’s  name  was  called.  All  the  fifteen  were  condemned,  and 
the  trials  of  the  whole  occupied  an  hour  and  a half. 

“Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,”  was  at  length  arraigned. 

His  judges  sat  upon  the  Bench  in  feathered  hats;  but  the  rough  red  cap  and 
tricoloured  cockade  was  the  head-dress  otherwise  prevailing.  Looking  at  the  Jury 
and  the  turbulent  audience,  he  might  have  thought  that  the  usual  order  of  things 
Was  reversed,  and  that  the  felons  were  trying  the  honest  men.  The  lowest, 
crudest,  and  worst  populace  of  a city,  never  without  its  quantity  of  low,  cruel,  and 
bad,  were  the  directing  spirits  of  the  scene : noisily  commenting,  applauding, 
disapproving,  anticipating,  and  precipitating  the  result,  withou4:  a check.  Of  the 
men,  the  greater  part  were  armed  in  various  ways  ; of  the  women,  some  wore 
knives,  some  daggers,  some  ate  and  drank  as  they  looked  on,  many  knitted, 
Among  these  last,  was  one,  with  a spare  piece  of  knitting  under  her  arm  as  she 
worked.  She  was  in  a front  row,  by  the  side  of  a man  whom  he  had  never  seen 


The  Emigrant  at  the  Bar. 


*65 

since  his  arrival  at  the  Barfffer,  but  whom  he  directly  remembered  as  Defarge. 
He  noticed  that  she  once  or  twice  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  that  she  seemed  to  be 
his  wife ; but,  what  he  most  noticed  in  the  two  figures  was,  that  although  they 
were  posted  as  close  to  himself  as  they  could  be,  they  never  looked  towards  him. 
They  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something  with  a dogged  determination,  and  they 
looked  at  the  Juiy,  but  at  nothing  else.  Under  the  President  sat  Doctor  Manette, 
in  his  usual  quiet  dress.  As  well  as  the  prisoner  could  see,  he  and  Mr.  Lorry 
were  the  only  men  there,  unconnected  with  the  Tribunal,  who  wore  their  usual 
clothes,  and  had  not  assumed  the  coarse  garb  of  the  Carmagnole. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  was  accused  by  the  public  prosecutor  as  an 
emigrant,  whose  life  was  forfeit  to  the  Republic,  under  the  decree  which  banished 
all  emigrants  on  pain  of  Death.  It  was  nothing  that  the  decree  bore  date  since 
his  return  to  France.  There  he  was,  and  there  was  the  decree;  he  had  been  taken 
in  France,  and  his  head  was  demanded. 

“ Take  off  his  head  ! ” cried  the  audience.  “ An  enemy  to  the  Republic  ! ” 

The  President  rang  his  bell  to  silence  those  cries,  and  asked  the  prisoner  whether 
it  was  not  true  that  he  had  lived  many  years  in  England  ? 

Undoubtedly  it  was. 

Was  he  not  an  emigrant  then  ? What  did  he  call  himself? 

Not  an  emigrant,  he  hoped,  within  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the  law. 

Why  not  ? the  President  desired  to  know. 

Because  he  had  voluntarily  relinquished  a title  that  was  distasteful  to  him,  and 
a station  that  was  distasteful  to  him,  and  had  left  his  country — he  submitted  before 
the  word  emigrant  in  the  present  acceptation  by  the  Tribunal  was  in  use — to  live* 
by  his  own  industry  in  England,  rather  than  on  the  industry  of  the  overladen 
people  of  France. 

Wliat  proof  had  he  of  this. 

He  handed  in  the  names  of  two  witnesses ; Theophile  Gabelle,  and  Alexandre 
Manette. 

But  he  had  married  in  England  ? the  President  reminded  him. 

True,  but  not  an  English  woman. 

A citizeness  of  France  ? 

Yes.  By  birth. 

Her  name  and  family  ? 

“ Lucie  Manette,  only  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  the  good  physician  who  sits 
there.” 

This  answer  had  a happy  effect  upon  the  audience.  Cries  in  exaltation  of  the 
well-known  good  physician  rent  the  hall.  So  capriciously  were  the  people  moved, 
that  tears  immediately  rolled  down  several  ferocious  countenances  which  had  been 
glaring  at  the  prisoner  a moment  before,  as  if  with  impatience  to  pluck  him  out 
into  the  streets  and  kill  him. 

On  these  few  steps  of  his  dangerous  way,  Charles  Darnay  had  set  his  foot  ac- 
cording to  Doctor  Manette’s  reiterated  instructions.  The  same  cautious  counsel 
directed  every  step  that  lay  before  him,  and  had  prepared  every  inch  of  his  road. 

The  President  asked,  why  had  he  returned  to  France  when  he  did,  and  not 
sooner  ? 

He  had  not  returned  sooner,  he  replied,  simply  because  he  had  no  means  of 
living  in  France,  save  those  he  had  resigned ; whereas,  in  England,  he  lived  by 
giving  instruction  in  the  French  language  and  literature.  He  had  returned  when 
he  did,  on  the  pressing  and  written  entreaty  of  a French  citizen,  who  represented 
that  his  life  was  endangered  by  his  absence.  He  had  come  back,  to  save  a citizen’s 
life,  and  to  bear  his  testimony,  at  whatever  personal  hazard,  to  the  truth.  Was 
that  ciiminal  in  the  eyes  of  the  Republic  ? 


66 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


The  populace  cried  enthusiastically,  “No  !”  and  the  President  rang  his  bell  to 
quiet  them.  Which  it  did  not,  for  they  continued  to  cry  “ No  !”  until  they  left 
off,  of  their  own  will. 

The  President  required  the  name  of  that  citizen  ? The  accused  explained  that 
the  citizen  was  his  first  witness.  He  also  referred  with  confidence  to  the  citizen’s 
letter,  which  had  been  taken  from  him  at  the  Barrier,  but  which  he  did  not  doub^ 
would  be  found  among  the  papers  then  before  the  President. 

The  Doctor  had  taken  care  that  it  should  be  there — had  assured  him  that  it 
would  be  there — and  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  it  was  produced  and  read. 
Citizen  Gabelle  was  called  to  confirm  it,  and  did  so.  Citizen  Gabelle  hinted,  with 
infinite  delicacy  and  politeness,  that  in  the  pressure  of  business  imposed  on  the 
Tribunal  by  the  multitude  of  enemies  of  the  Republic  with  which  it  had  to  deal, 
he  had  been  slightly  overlooked  in  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye — in  fact,  had  rather 

Eassed  out  of  the  Tribunal’s  patriotic  remembrance — until  three  days  ago  ; when 
e had  been  summoned  before  it,  and  had  been  set  at  liberty  on  the  Jury’s  declar- 
ing themselves  satisfied  that  the  accusation  against  him  was  answered,  as  to  him- 
self, by  the  surrender  of  the  citizen  Evr^monde,  called  Darnay. 

Doctor  Manette  was  next  questioned.  His  high  personal  popularity,  and  the 
clearness  of  his  answers,  made  a great  impression ; but,  as  he  proceeded,  as  he 
showed  that  the  Accused  was  his  first  friend  on  his  release  from  his  long  imprison- 
ment ; that,  the  accused  had  remained  in  England,  always  faithful  and  devoted  to 
his  daughter  and  himself  in  their  exile  ; that,  so  far  from  being  in  favour  with  the 
Aristocrat  government  there,  he  had  actually  been  tried  for  his  life  by  it,  as  the  foe 
of  England  and  friend  of  the  United  States — as  he  brought  these  circumstances 
into  view,  with  the  greatest  discretion  and  with  the  straightforward  force  of  truth 
and  earnestness,  the  Jury  and  the  populace  became  one.  At  last,  when  he  appealed 
by  name  to  Monsieur  Lorry,  an  English  gentleman  then  and  there  present,  who, 
like  himself,  had  been  a witness  on  that  English  trial  and  could  corroborate  his 
account  of  it,  the  Jury  declared  that  they  had  heard  enough,  and  that  they  were 
ready  with  their  votes  if  the  President  were  content  to  receive  them. 

At  every  vote  (the  Jurymen  voted  aloud  and  individually),  the  populace  set  up  a 
shout  of  applause.  All  the  voices  were  in  the  prisoner’s  favour,  and  the  President 
declared  him  free. 

Then,  began  one  of  those  extraordinary  scenes  with  which  the  populace  some- 
times gratified  their  fickleness,  or  their  better  impulses  towards  generosity  and 
mercy,  or  which  they  regarded  as  some  set-off  against  their  swollen  account  of 
cruel  rage.  No  man  can  decide  now  to  which  of  these  motives  such  extraordinary 
scenes  were  referable  ; it  is  probable,  to  a blending  of  all  the  three,  with  the  second 
predominating.  No  sooner  was  the  acquittal  pronounced,  than  tears  were  shed  as 
freely  as  blood  at  another  time,  and  such  fraternal  embraces  were  bestowed  upon 
the  prisoner  by  as  many  of  both  sexes  as  could  rush  at  him,  that  after  his  long  and 
unwholesome  confinement  he  was  in  danger  of  fainting  from  exhaustion  ; none  the 
less  because  he  knew  very  well,  that  the  very  same  people,  carried  by  another  cur- 
rent, would  have  rushed  at  him  with  the  very  same  intensity,  to  rend  him  to  pieces 
and  strew  him  over  the  streets. 

His  removal,  to  make  way  for  other  accused  persons  who  were  to  be  tried,  res- 
cued him  from  these  caresses  for  the  moment.  Five  were  to  be  tried  together, 
next,  as  enemies  of  the  Republic,  forasmuch  as  they  had  not  assisted  it  by  word  oi 
deed.  So  quick  was  the  Tribunal  to  compensate  itself  and  the  nation  for  a chance 
lost,  that  these  five  came  down  to  him  before  he  left  the  place,  condemned  to  die 
within  twenty-four  hours.  The  first  of  them  told  him  so,  with  the  customary  pri- 
son sign  of  Death — a raised  finger — and  they  all  added  in  words,  “Long  live  the 
Republic  1” 


The  Emigrant  released . 


^7 


The  five  had  had,  it  is  true,  no  audience  to  lengthen  their  proceedings,  for  when 
he  and  Doctor  Manette  emerged  from  the  gate,  there  was  a great  crowd  about  it, 
in  which  there  seemed  to  be  every  face  he  had  seen  in  Court — except  two,  for 
which  he  looked  in  vain.  On  his  coming  out,  the  concourse  made  at  him  anew, 
weeping,  embracing,  and  shouting,  all  by  turns  and  all  together,  until  the  veiy  tide 
of  the  river  on  the  bank  of  which  the  mad  scene  was  acted,  seemed  to  run  mad, 
like  the  people  on  the  shore. 

They  put  him  into  a great  chair  they  had  among  them,  and  which  they  had  taken 
either  out  of  the  Court  itself,  or  one  of  its  rooms  or  passages.  Over  the  chair  they 
had  thrown  a red  flag,  and  to  the  back  of  it  they  had  bound  a pike  with  a red  cap 
on  its  top.  In  this  car  of  triumph,  not  even  the  Doctor’s  entreaties  could  prevent 
his  being  carried  to  his  home  on  men’s  shoulders,  with  a confused  sea  of  red  caps 
heaving  about  him,  and  casting  up  to  sight  from  the  stormy  deep  such  wrecks  of 
faces,  that  he  more  than  once  misdoubted  his  mind  being  in  confusion,  and  that 
he  was  in  the  tumbril  on  his  way  to  the  Guillotine. 

In  wild  dreamlike  procession,  embracing  whom  they  met  and  pointing  him  out, 
they  carried  him  on.  Reddening  the  snowy  streets  with  the  prevailing  Republican 
colour,  in  winding  and  tramping  through  them,  as  they  had  reddened  them  below 
the  snow  with  a deeper  dye,  they  carried  him  thus  into  the  court-yard  of  the  build- 
ing where  he  lived.  Her  father  had  gone  on  before,  to  prepare  her,  and  when  her 
husband  stood  upon  his  feet,  she  dropped  insensible  in  his  arms. 

As  he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  turned  her  beautiful  head  between  his  face 
and  the  brawling  crowd,  so  that  his  tears  and  her  lips  might  come  together  unseen, 
a few  of  the  people  fell  to  dancing.  Instantly,  all  the  rest  fell  to  dancing,  and  the 
court-yard  overflowed  with  the  Carmagnole.  Then,  they  elevated  into  the  vacant 
chair  a young  woman  from  the  crowd  to  be  carried  as  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and 
then  swelling  and  overflowing  out  into  the  adjacent  streets,  and  along  the  river’s 
bank,  and  over  the  bridge,  the  Carmagnole  absorbed  them  every  one  and  whirled 
them  away. 

After  grasping  the  Doctor’s  hand,  as  he  stood  victorious  and  proud  before  him  ; 
after  grasping  the  hand  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  came  panting  in  breathless  from  his 
struggle  against  the  waterspout  of  the  Carmagnole  ; after  kissing  little  Lucie,  who 
was  lifted  up  to  clasp  her  arms  round  his  neck  ; and  after  embracing  the  ever 
zealous  and  faithful  Pross  who  lifted  her  ; he  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and  carried 
her  up  to  their  rooms. 

“ Lucie  I My  own  ! I am  safe.” 

“ O dearest  Charles,  let  me  thank  God  for  this  on  my  knees  as  I ha^  prayed  to 
Him.” 

They  all  reverently  bowed  their  heads  and  hearts.  When  she  was  again  in  his 
arms,  he  said  to  her : 

“ And  now  speak  to  your  father,  dearest.  No  other  man  in  all  this  France  could 
have  done  what  he  has  done  for  me.” 

She  laid  her  head  upon  her  father’s  breast,  as  she  had  laid  his  poor  head  on  her 
own  breast,  long,  long  ago.  He  was  happy  in  the  return  he  had  made  her,  he  was 
recompensed  for  his  suffering,  he  was  proud  of  his  strength.  “You  must  not  be 
weak,  my  darling,”  he  remonstrated ; “ don’t  tremble  so.  I have  saved  him.” 


1 68 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR. 

“ I HAVE  saved  him.”  It  was  not  another  of  the  dreams  in  which  he  had  often 
come  back  ; he  was  really  here.  And  yet  his  wife  trembled,  and  a vague  but 
heavy  fear  was  upon  her. 

All  the  air  around  was  so  thick  and  dark,  the  people  were  so  passionately 
revengeful  and  fitful,  the  innocent  were  so  constantly  put  to  death  on  vague  suspi- 
cion and  black  malice,  it  was  so  impossible  to  forget  that  many  as  blameless  as 
her  husband  and  as  dear  to  others  as  he  was  to  her,  eveiy  day  shared  the  fate  from 
which  he  had  been  clutched,  that  her  heart  could  not  be  as  lightened  of  its  load  as 
she  felt  it  ought  to  be.  The  shadows  of  the  wintry  afternoon  were  beginning  to 
fall,  and  even  now  the  dreadful  carts  were  rolling  through  the  streets.  Her  mind 
pursued  them,  looking  for  him  among  the  Condemned ; and  then  she  clung  closer 
to  his  real  presence  and  trembled  more. 

Her  father,  cheering  her,  showed  a compassionate  superiority  to  this  woman’s 
weakness,  which  was  wonderful  to  see.  No  garret,  no  shoemaking,  no  One  Hun- 
dred and  Five,  North  Tower,  now  ! He  had  accomplished  the  task  he  had  set 
himself,  his  promise  was  redeemed,  he  had  saved  Charles.  Let  them  all  lean  upon 
him. 

Their  housekeeping  was  of  a very  frugal  kind  : not  only  because  that  was  the 
safest  way  of  life,  involving  the  least  offence  to  the  people,  but  because  they  were 
not  rich,  and  Charles,  throughout  his  imprisonment,  had  had  to  pay  heavily  for  his 
bad  food,  and  for  his  guard,  and  towards  the  living  of  the  poorer  prisoners.  Partly 
on  this  account,  and  partly  to  avoid  a domestic  spy,  they  kept  no  servant ; the 
citizen  and  citizeness  who  acted  as  porters  at  the  court-yard  gate,  rendered  them 
occasional  service  ; and  Jerry  (almost  wholly  transferred  to  them  by  Mr.  Lorry) 
had  become  their  daily  retainer,  and  had  his  bed  there  every  night. 

It  was  an  ordinance  of  the  Republic  One  and  Indivisible  of  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity,  or  Heath,  that  on  the  door  or  door-post  of  every  house,  the  name  of 
every  inmate  must  be  legibly  inscribed  in  letters  of  a certain  size,  at  a certain  con- 
venient height  from  the  ground.  Mr.  Jerry  Cruncher’s  name,  therefore,  duly 
embellished  the  doorpost  down  below ; and,  as  the  afternoon  shadows  deepened, 
the  owner  of  that  name  himself  appeared,  from  overlooking  a painter  whom  Doctor 
Manette  had  employed  to  add  to  the  list  the  name  of  Charles  Evremonde,  called 
Darnay. 

In  the  universal  fear  and  distrust  that  darkened  the  time,  all  the  usual  harmless 
ways  of  life  were  changed.  In  the  Doctor’s  little  household,  as  in  very  many  others, 
the  articles  of  daily  consumption  that  were  wanted  were  purchased  every  evening, 
in  small  quantities  and  at  various  small  shops.  To  avoid  attracting  notice,  and  to 
give  as  little  occasion  as  possible  for  talk  and  envy,  was  the  general  desire. 

For  some  months  past,  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher  had  discharged  the  office 
of  purveyors  ; the  former  carrying  the  money  ; the  latter,  the  basket.  Every  after- 
noon at  about  the  time  when  the  public  lamps  were  lighted,  they  fared  forth  on 
this  duty,  and  made  and  brought  home  such  purchases  as  were  needful.  Although 
Miss  Pross,  through  her  long  association  with  a French  family,  might  have  known 
%s  much  of  their  language  as  of  her  own,  if  she  had  had  a mind,  she  had  no  mind 
in  that  direction  ; consequently  she  knew  no  more  of  that  “ nonsense  ” (as  she  was 
pleased  to  call  it)  than  Mr.  Cruncher  did.  So  her  manner  of  marketing  was  to 
plump  a noun-substantive  at  the  head  of  a shopkeeper  without  any  introduction  in 


Loyalty  of  Miss  Pross. 


165 


the  nature  of  an  article,  and,  if  it  happened  not  to  be  the  name  of  the  thing  she 
wanted,  to  look  round  for  that  thing,  lay  hold  of  it,  and  hold  on  by  it  until  the 
bargain  was  concluded.  She  always  made  a bargain  for  it,  by  holding  up,  as  a 
statement  of  its  just  price,  one  finger  less  than  the  merchant  held  up,  whatever  his 
number  might  be. 

“Now,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  eyes  were  red  with  felicity;  “ if 
you  are  ready,  I am.” 

Jerry  hoarsely  professed  himself  at  Miss  Pross’s  service.  He  had  worn  all  his 
rust  off  long  ago,  but  nothing  would  file  his  spiky  head  down. 

“ There’s  all  manner  of  things  wanted,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ and  we  shall  have  a 
precious  time  of  it.  We  want  wine,  among  the  rest.  Nice  toasts  these  Redheads 
will  be  drinking,  wherever  we  buy  it.” 

‘‘It  will  be  much  the  same  to  your  knowledge,  miss,  I should  think,”  retorted 
Jerry,  “ whether  they  drink  your  health  or  the  Old  Un’s.” 

“ Who’s  he  ? ” said  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  with  some  diffidence,  explained  himself  as  meaning  “ Old  Nick’s.” 

“ Ha  !”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ it  doesn’t  need  an  interpreter  to  explain  the  meaning 
of  these  creatures.  They  have  but  one,  and  it’s  Midnight  Murder,  and  Mischief.” 

“ Hush,  dear ! Pray,  pray,  be  cautious  !”  cried  Lucie. 

“ Yes,  yes,  yes,  I’ll  be  cautious,”  said  Miss  Pross;  “ but  I may  say  among  our- 
selves, that  I do  hope  there  will  be  no  oniony  and  tobaccoey  smotherings  in  the 
form  of  embracings  all  round,  going  on  in  the  streets.  Now,  Ladybird,  never  you 
stir  from  that  fire  till  I come  back  ! Take  care  of  the  dear  husband  you  have  reco- 
vered, and  don’t  move  your  pretty  head  from  his  shoulder  as  you  have  it  now,  till 
you  see  me  again  ! May  I ask  a question,  Doctor  Manette,  before  I go  ?” 

“ I think  you  may  take  that  liberty,”  the  Doctor  answered,  smiling. 

“ For  gracious  sake,  don’t  talk  about  Liberty  ; wre  have  quite  enough  of  that,” 
said  Miss  Pross. 

“Hush,  dear!  Again?”  Lucie  remonstrated. 

“Well,  my  sweet,”  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding  her  head  emphatically,  “the 
short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  I am  a subject  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  Ring 
George  the  Third  Miss  Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name  ; “ and  as  such,  my  maxim 
is,  Confound  their  politics,  Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks,  On  him  our  hopes  we 
fix,  God  save  the  King  !” 

Mr.  Cruncher,  in  an  access  of  loyalty,  growlingly  repeated  the  words  after  Miss 
Pross,  like  somebody  at  church. 

“I  am  glad  you  have  so  much  of  the  Englishman  in  you,  though  I wish  you 
had  never  taken  that  cold  in  your  voice,”  said  Miss  Pross,  approvingly.  “Bui 
the  question,  Doctor  Manette.  Is  there” — it  was  the  good  creature’s  way  to  affect 
to  make  light  of  anything  that  wras  a great  anxiety  with  them  all,  and  to  come 
at  it  in  this  chance  manner — “ is  there  any  prospect  yet,  of  our  getting  out  ol 
this  place  ?” 

“ I fear  not  yet.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  Charles  yet.” 

“ Heigh-ho-hum  !”  said  Miss  Pross,  cheerfully  repressing  a sigh  as  she  glanced 
at  her  darling’s  golden  hair  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  “ then  we  must  have  patience 
andwuit:  that’s  all.  We  must  hold  up  our  heads  and  fight  low,  as  my  brothei 
Solomon  used  to  say.  Now,  Mr.  Cruncher  ! — Don’t  you  move,  Ladybird  !” 

They  went  out,  leaving  Lucie,  and  her  husband,  her  father,  and  the  child,  by  a 
bright  fire.  Mr.  Lorry  was  expected  back  presently  from  the  Banking  House 
Miss  Pross  had  lighted  the  lamp,  but  had  put  it  aside  in  a corner,  that  they  mighl 
enjoy  the  fire-light  undisturbed.  Little  Lucie  sat  by  her  grandfather  with  hei 
hands  clasped  through  his  arm : and  he,  in  a tone  not  rising  much  above  a 
whisper,  began  to  tell  her  a story  of  a great  and  powerful  Fairy  who  had  opened 


*7° 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


a prison- wall  and  let  out  a captive  who  had  once  done  the  Fairy  a service.  All 
was  subdued  and  quiet,  and  Lucie  was  more  at  ease  than  she  had  been. 

“ What  is  that  ?”  she  cried,  all  at  once. 

“ My  dear !”  said  her  father,  stopping  in  his  story,  and  laying  his  hand  on  hers, 
i(  command  yourself.  What  a disordered  state  you  are  in ! The  least  thing — 
nothing — startles  you!  You , your  father’s  daughter  !” 

“ I thought,  my  father,”  said  Lucie,  excusing  herself,  with  a pale  face  and  m a 
faltering  voice,  “ that  I heard  strange  feet  upon  the  stairs.” 

“ My  love,  the  staircase  is  as  still  as  Death.” 

As  he  Sviid  the  word,  a dIow  was  struck  upon  the  door. 

“ Oh  father,  father.  What  can  this  be  ! Hide  Charles.  Save  him  !” 

“ My  child,”  said  the  Doctor,  rising,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
“ I have  saved  him.  What  weakness  is  this,  my  dear!  Let  me  go  to  the  door.” 
He  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  two  intervening  outer  rooms,  and 
opened  it.  A rude  clattering  of  feet  over  the  floor,  and  four  rough  men  in  red 
caps,  armed  with  sabres  and  pistols,  entered  the  room. 

“ The  Citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,”  said  the  first. 

“Who  seeks  him  ?”  answered  Darnay. 

“ I seek  him.  We  seek  him.  I know  you,  Evremonde ; I saw  you  before  the 
Tribunal  to-day.  You  are  again  the  prisoner  of  the  Republic.” 

The  four  surrounded  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  wife  and  child  clinging  to 
him. 

“ Tell  me  how  and  why  am  I again  a prisoner  ?” 

“ It  is  enough  that  you  return  straight  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  will  know  to- 
morrow. You  are  summoned  for  to-morrow.” 

Dr.  Manette,  whom  this  visitation  had  so  turned  into  stone,  that  he  stood  with 
the  lamp  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  a statue  made  to  hold  it,  moved  after  these 
words  were  spoken,  put  the  lamp  down,  and  confronting  the  speaker,  and  taking 
him,  not  ungently,  by  the  loose  front  of  his  red  woollen  shirt,  said : 

“You  know  him,  you  have  said.  Do  you  know  me  ?” 

“ Yes,  I know  you,  Citizen  Doctor.” 

“We  all  know  you,  Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  other  three. 

He  looked  abstractedly  from  one  to  another,  and  said,  in  a lower  voice,  after  a 
pause  : 

“ Will  you  answer  his  question  to  me  then  ? How  does  this  happen  ?” 

“ Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  first,  reluctantly,  “ he  has  been  denounced  to  the 
Section  of  Saint  Antoine.  This  citizen,”  pointing  out  the  second  who  had  entered, 
“ is  from  Saint  Antoine.” 

The  citizen  here  indicated  nodded  his  head,  and  added  : 

“ He  is  accused  by  Saint  Antoine.” 

“ Of  what  ?”  asked  the  Doctor. 

“ Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  first,  with  his  former  reluctance,  “ ask  no  more.  If 
the  Republic  demands  sacrifices  from  you,  without  doubt  you  as  a good  patriot  will 
be  happy  to  make  them.  The  Republic  goes  before  all.  The  People  is  supreme. 
Evremonde,  we  are  pressed.” 

“ One  word,”  the  Doctor  entreated.  “ Will  you  tell  me  who  denounced  him  ?” 
“It  is  against  rule,”  answered  the  first ; “ but  you  can  ask  Him  of  Saint 
Antoine  here.” 

The  Doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  that  man.  Who  moved  uneasily  on  his  feet, 
rubbed  his  beard  a little,  and  at  length  said : 

“Well ! Truly  it  is  against  rule.  But  he  is  denounced — and  gravely — b| 
the  Citizen  and  Citizeness  Defarge.  And  by  one  other.” 

“ What  other  ?” 


17! 


Miss  Pross  makes  a discovery . 


“ Do  you  ask,  Citizen  Doctor  ?” 

“ Yes.’’ 

“ Then,”  said  he  of  Saint  Antoine,  with  a strange  look,  “ you  will  be  answered 
to  •morrow.  Now,  I am  dumb  !” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A HAND  AT  CARDS. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  new  calamity  at  home,  Miss  Pross  threaded  her  way 
along  the  narrow  streets  and  crossed  the  river  by  the  bridge  of  the  Pont-Neuf, 
reckoning  in  her  mind  the  number  of  indispensable  purchases  she  had  to  make. 
Mr.  Cruncher,  with  the  basket,  walked  at  her  side.  They  both  looked  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left  into  most  of  the  shops  they  passed,  had  a wary  eye  for  all 
gregarious  assemblages  of  people,  and  turned  out  of  their  road  to  avoid  any  very 
excited  group  of  talkers.  It  was  a raw  evening,  and  the  misty  river,  blurred  lo 
the  eye  with  blazing  lights  and  to  the  ear  with  harsh  noises,  showed  where  the 
barges  were  stationed  in  which  the  smiths  worked,  making  guns  for  the  Army  of 
the  Republic.  Woe  to  the  man  who  played  tricks  with  that  Army,  or  got  unde- 
served promotion  in  it ! Better  for  him  that  his  beard  had  never  grown,  for  the 
National  Razor  shaved  him  close. 

Having  purchased  a few  small  articles  of  grocery,  and  a measure  of  oil  for  the 
lamp,  Miss  Pross  bethought  herself  of  the  wine  they  wanted.  After  peeping  into 
several  wine-shops,  she  stopped  at  the  sign  of  The  Good  Republican  Brutus  of 
Antiquity,  not  far  from  the  National  Palace,  once  (and  twice)  the  Tuileries,  where  the 
aspect  of  things  rather  took  her  fancy.  It  had  a quieter  look  than  any  other  place 
of  the  same  description  they  had  passed,  and,  though  red  with  patriotic  caps,  was 
not  so  red  as  the  rest.  Sounding  Mr.  Cruncher,  and  finding  him  of  her  opinion,  Miss 
Pross  resorted  to  The  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  attended  by  her  cavalier. 

Slightly  observant  of  the  smoky  lights  ; of  the  people,  pipe  in  mouth,  playing 
with  limp  cards  and  yellow  dominoes  ; of  the  one  bare-breasted,  bare-armed,  soot- 
begrimed  workman  reading  a journal  aloud,  and  of  the  others  listening  to  him  ; of 
the  weapons  worn,  or  laid  aside  to  be  resumed ; of  the  two  or  three  customers 
fallen  forward  asleep,  who  in  the  popular  high-shouldered  shaggy  black  spencer 
looked,  in  that  attitude,  like  slumbering  bears  or  dogs  ; the  two  outlandish  cus- 
tomers approached  the  counter,  and  showed  what  they  wanted. 

As  their  wine  was  measuring  out,  a man  parted  from  another  man  in  a corner,  and 
rose  to  depart.  In  going,  he  had  to  face  Miss  Pross.  No  sooner  did  he  face  her, 
than  Miss  Pross  uttered  a scream,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

In  a moment,  the  whole  company  were  on  their  feet.  That  somebody  was 
assassinated  by  somebody  vindicating  a difference  of  opinion  was  the  likeliest 
occurrence.  Everybody  looked  to  see  somebody  fall,  but  only  saw  a man  and  a 
woman  standing  staring  at  each  other ; the  man  with  all  the  outward  aspect  of  a 
Frenchman  and  a thorough  Republican  ; the  woman,  evidently  English. 

What  was  said  in  this  disappointing  anti-climax,  by  the  disciples  of  the  Good 
Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  except  that  it  was  something  very  voluble  and 
loud,  would  have  been  as  so  much  Hebrew  or  Chaldean  to  Miss  Pross  and  her 
protector,  though  they  had  been  all  ears.  But,  they  had  no  ears  for  anything  in 
their  surprise.  For,  it  must  be  recorded,  that  not  only  was  Miss  Pross  lost  in 
amazement  and  agitation,  but,  Mr.  Cruncher — though  it  seemed  on  his  owa 
sepai  ate  and  individual  account — was  in  a state  of  the  greatest  wonder. 


17* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ What  is  the  matter  ?”  said  the  man  who  had  caused  Miss  Fross  to  scream  ; 
speaking  in  a vexed,  abrupt  voice  (though  in  a tow  tone),  and  in  English. 

“Oh,  Solomon,  dear  Solomon  !”  cried  Miss  Pross,  clapping  her  hands  again. 
“After  not  setting  eyes  upon  you  or  hearing  of  you  for  so  long  a time,  do  I find 
you  here !” 

“ Don’t  call  me  Solomon.  Do  you  want  to  be  the  death  of  me  ?”  asked  the 
man,  in  a furtive,  frightened  way. 

“Brother,  brother!”  cried  Miss  Pross,  bursting  into  tears.  “Have  I ever 
been  so  hard  with  you  that  you  ask  me  such  a cruel  question  ?” 

“Then  hold  your  meddlesome  tongue,”  said  Solomon,  “and  come  out,  if  you 
want  to  speak  to  me.  Pay  for  your  wine,  and  come  out.  Who’s  this  man  ?” 

Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  loving  and  dejected  head  at  her  by  no  means  affectionate 
brother,  said  through  her  tears,  “ Mr.  Cruncher.” 

“Let  him  come  out  too,”  said  Solomon.  “ Does  he  think  me  a ghost  ?” 
Apparently,  Mr.  Cruncher  did,  to  judge  from  his  looks.  He  said  not  a word, 
however,  and  Miss  Pross,  exploring  the  depths  of  her  reticule  through  her  tears 
with  great  difficulty  paid  for  her  wine.  As  she  did  so,  Solomon  turned  to  the 
followers  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  and  offered  a few  words  of 
explanation  in  the  French  language,  which  caused  them  all  to  relapse  into  their 
former  places  and  pursuits. 

“ Now,”  said  Solomon,  stopping  at  the  dark  street  corner,  “ what  do  you  want  ?” 
“ How  dreadfully  unkind  in  a brother  nothing  has  ever  turned  my  love  away 
from  !”  cried  Miss  Pross,  “ to  give  me  such  a greeting,  and  show  me  no  affection.” 
“ There.  Con-found  it  ! There,”  said  Solomon,  making  a dab  at  Miss  Pross’s 
lips  with  his  own.  “ Now  are  you  content  ?” 

Miss  Pross  only  shook  her  head  and  wept  in  silence. 

“If  you  expect  me  to  be  surprised,”  said  her  brother  Solomon,  “ I am  not  sur- 
prised ; I knew  you  were  here  ; I know  of  most  people  who  are  here.  If  you 
really  don’t  want  to  endanger  my  existence — which  I half  believe  you  do — go  your 
ways  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  me  go  mine.  I am  busy.  I am  an  official.” 

“ My  English  brother  Solomon,”  mourned  Miss  Pross,  casting  up  her  tear- 
fraught  eyes,  “ that  had  the  makings  in  him  of  one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men 
in  his  native  country,  an  official  among  foreigners,  and  such  foreigners  ! I would 

almost  sooner  have  seen  the  dear  boy  lying  in  his ” 

“ I said  so!”  cried  her  brother,  interrupting.  “I  knew  it.  You  want  to  be 
the  death  of  me.  I shall  be  rendered  Suspected,  by  my  own  sister.  Just  as  I am 
getting  on !” 

“ The  gracious  and  merciful  Heavens  forbid  1”  cried  Miss  Pross.  “ Far  rather 
would  I never  see  you  again,  dear  Solomon,  though  I have  ever  loved  you  truly, 
and  ever  shall.  Say  but  one  affectionate  word  to  me,  and  tell  me  there  is  nothing 
angry  or  estranged  between  us,  and  I will  detain  you  no  longer.” 

Good  Miss  Pross ! As  if  the  estrangement  between  them  had  come  of  any 
culpability  of  hers.  As  if  Mr.  Lorry  had  not  known  it  for  a fact,  years  ago,  in  the 
quiet  corner  in  Soho,  that  this  precious  brother  had  spent  her  money  and  left  her  ! 

He  was  saying  the  affectionate  word,  however,  with  a far  more  grudging  con- 
descension and  patronage  than  he  could  have  shown  if  their  relative  merits  and 
positions  had  been  reversed  (which  is  invariably  the  case,  all  the  world  over), 
wnen  Mr.  Cruncher,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  hoarsely  and  unexpectedly 
interposed  with  the  following  singular  question  : 

“ I say  ! Might  I ask  the'favour  ? As  to  whether  your  name  is  John  Solomon, 
oi  Solomon  John  ?” 

The  official  turned  towards  him  with  sudden  distrust.  He  had  not  previously 
uUered  a word. 


Sydney  Carton  and  Mr . Bar  sad. 


173 


« Come  !”  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  “ Speak  out,  you  know.”  (Which,  by  the  way, 
was  more  than  he  could  do  himself.)  “ John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John  ? She 
calls  you  Solomon,  and  she  must  know,  being  your  sister.  And  / know  you’re 
John,"  you  know.  Which  of  the  two  goes  first  ? And  regarding  that  name  of 
Pross,  likewise.  That  warn’t  your  name  over  the  water.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Well,  I don’t  know  all  I mean,  for  I can’t  call  to  mind  what  your  name  was, 
over  the  water.” 

“No?” 

“ No.  But  I’ll  swear  it  was  a name  of  two  syllables.” 

“ Indeed  ?” 

“ Yes.  T'other  one’s  was  one  syllable.  I know  you.  You  was  a spy-witnes9 
at  the  Bailey.  What,  in  the  name  of  the  Father  of  Lies,  own  father  to  yourself, 
was  you  called  at  that  time  ?” 

“ Barsad,”  said  another  voice,  striking  in. 

“ That’s  the  name  for  a thousand  pound  ! ” cried  Jerry. 

The  speaker  who  struck  in,  was  Sydney  Carton.  He  had  his  hands  behind 
him  under  the  skirts  of  his  riding-coat,  and  he  stood  at  Mr.  Cruncher’s  elbow  as 
negligently  as  he  might  have  stood  at  the  Old  Bailey  itself. 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Pross.  I arrived  at  Mr.  Lorry’s,  to  his 
surprise,  yesterday  evening ; we  agreed  that  I would  not  present  myself  elsewhere 
until  all  was  well,  or  unless  I could  be  useful ; I present  myself  here,  to  beg  a 
little  talk  with  your  brother.  I wish  you  had  a better  employed  brother  than 
Mr.  Barsad.  I wish  for  your  sake  Mr.  Barsad  was  not  a Sheep  of  the  Prisons,” 
Sheep  was  a cant  word  of  the  time  for  a spy,  under  the  gaolers.  The  spy,  who 

was  pale,  turned  paler,  and  asked  him  how  he  dared 

“ I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Sydney.  “ I lighted  on  you,  Mr.  Barsad,  coming  out  of 
the  prison  of  the  Conciergerie  while  I was  contemplating  the  walls,  an  hour  or 
more  ago.  You  have  a face  to  be  remembered,  and  I remember  faces  well.  Made 
curious  by  seeing  you  in  that  connection,  and  having  a reason,  to  which  you  are  no 
stranger,  for  associating  you  with  the  misfortunes  ol  a friend  now  very  unfortunate, 
I walked  in  your  direction.  I walked  into  the  wine-shop  here,  close  after  you, 
and  sat  near  you.  I had  no  difficulty  in  deducing  from  your  unreserved  conver- 
sation, and  the  rumour  openly  going  about  among  your  admirers,  the  nature  of 
your  calling.  And  gradually,  what  I had  done  at  random,  seemed  to  shape  itself 
into  a purpose,  Mr.  Barsad.” 

“ What  purpose  ?”  the  spy  asked. 

“ It  would  be  troublesome,  and  might  be  dangerous,  to  explain  in  the  street. 
Could  you  favour  me,  in  confidence,  with  some  minutes  of  your  company — at  the 
office  of  Tellson’s  Bank,  for  instance  ?” 

“ Under  a threat  ?” 

“ Oh ! Did  I say  that  ?” 

“ Then,  why  should  I go  there  ?” 

“ Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I can’t  say,  if  you  can’t.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  you  won’t  say,  sir  ?”  the  spy  irresolutely  asked. 

“ You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  Mr.  Barsad.  I won’t.” 

Carton’s  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  came  powerfully  in  aid  of  his  quickness 
and  skill,  in  such  a business  as  he  had  in  his  secret  mind,  and  with  such  a man 
as  he  had  to  do  with.  His  practised  eye  saw  it,  and  made  the  most  of  it. 

“ Now,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  spy,  casting  a reproachful  look  at  his  sister  ; 
“if  any  trouble  comes  of  this,  it’s  your  doing.” 

“ Come,  come,  Mr.  Barsad  !”  exclaimed  Sydney.  “ Don’t  be  ungrateful.  But 
for  my  great  respect  for  your  sister,  I might  not  have  led  up  so  pleasantly  to  a 


F 74  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

little  proposal  that  I wish  to  make  for  our  mutual  satisfaction.  Do  you  go  with 
me  to  the  Bank  ?” 

“ I’ll  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say.  Yes,  I’ll  go  with  you.” 

“ I propose  that  we  first  conduct  your  sister  safely  to  the  corner  of  her  own 
Street.  Let  me  take  your  arm,  Miss  Pross.  This  is  not  a good  city,  at  this  time, 
for  you  to  be  out  in,  unprotected  ; and  as  your  escoj  t knows  Mr.  Barsad,  I will 
invite  him  to  Mr.  Lorry’s  with  us.  Are  we  ready  ? Come  then  ! ” 

Miss  Pross  recalled  soon  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  of  her  life  remembered,  that 
as  she  pressed  her  hands  on  Sydney’s  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  imploring 
him  to  do  no  hurt  to  Solomon,  there  was  a braced  purpose  in  the  arm  and  a kind 
of  inspiration  in  the  eyes,  which  not  only  contradicted  his  light  manner,  but 
changed  and  raised  the  man.  She  was  too  much  occupied  then  with  fears  for  the 
brother  who  so  little  deserved  her  affection,  and  with  Sydney’s  friendly  reas- 
surances, adequately  to  heed  what  she  observed. 

They  left  her  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  Carton  led  the  way  to  Mr.  Lorry’s, 
which  was  within  a few  minutes’  walk.  John  Barsad,  or  Solomon  Pross,  walked 
at  his  side. 

Mr.  Lorry  had  just  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting  before  a cheery  little  log 
or  two  of  fire — perhaps  looking  into  their  blaze  for  the  picture  of  that  younger 
elderly  gentleman  from  Tellson’s,  who  had  looked  into  the  red  coals  at  the  Royal 
George  at  Dover,  now  a good  many  years  ago.  He  turned  his  head  as  they 
entered,  and  showed  the  surprise  with  which  he  saw  a stranger. 

“ Miss  Pross’s  brother,  sir,”  said  Sydney.  “ Mr.  Barsad.” 

“ Barsad  ?”  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  “ Barsad  ? I have  an  association  with 
the  name— and  with  the  face.” 

“ I told  you  you  had  a remarkable  face,  Mr.  Barsad,”  observed  Carton,  coolly. 
“ Pray  sit  down.” 

As  he  took  a chair  himself,  he  supplied  the  link  that  Mr.  Lorry  wanted,  by 
saying  to  him  with  a frown,  “Witness  at  that  trial.”  Mr.  Lorry  immediately 
remembered,  and  regarded  his  new  visitor  with  an  undisguised  look  of  abhorrence. 

“ Mr.  Barsad  has  been  recognised  by  Miss  Pross  as  the  affectionate  brother  you 
have  heard  of,”  said  Sydney,  “ and  has  acknowledged  the  relationship.  I pass  to 
worse  news.  Darnay  has  been  arrested  again.” 

Struck  with  consternation,  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed,  “ What  do  you  tell 
me  S I left  him  safe  and  free  within  these  two  hours,  and  am  about  to  return  to 
him!” 

“ Arrested  for  all  that.  When  was  it  done,  Mr.  Barsad  ?” 

“Just  now,  if  at  all.” 

“ Mr.  Barsad  is  the  best  authority  possible,  sir,”  said  Sydney,  “ and  I have  it 
from  Mr.  Barsad’s  communication  to  a friend  and  brother  Sheep  over  a bottle  of 
wine,  that  the  arrest  has  taken  place.  He  left  the  messengers  at  the  gate,  and 
saw  them  admitted  by  the  porter.  There  is  no  earthly  doubt  that  he  is  retaken.” 
Mr.  Lorry’s  business  eye  read  in  the  speaker’s  face  that  it  was  loss  of  time  to 
dwell  upon  the  point.  Confused,  but  sensible  that  something  might  depend  on 
his  presence  of  mind,  he  commanded  himself,  and  was  silently  attentive. 

“ Now,  I trust,”  said  Sydney  to  him,  “ that  the  name  and  influence  of  Doctor 
Manette  may  stand  him  in  as  good  stead  to-morrow — you  said  he  would  be  before 

the  Tribunal  again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Barsad? ” 

“ Yes ; I believe  so.” 

“ — In  as  good  stead  to-morrow  as  to-day.  But  it  may  not  be  so.  I own  to 
yov,,  I am  shaken,  Mr.  Lorry,  by  Doctor  Manette’s  not  having  had  the  power  ta 
prerent  this  arrest.” 

* ■ He  may  not  have  know®  of  it  beforehand,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 


Sydney  Carton  wins  the  Game . 15  5 

“ But  chat  very  circumstance  would  be  alarming,  when  we  remember  ho* 
Identified  he  is  with  his  son-in-law.” 

“That’s  tine,”  Mr.  Lorry  acknowledged,  with  his  troubled  hand  at  his  chin, 
and  his  troubled  eyes  on  Carton. 

“ In  short,”  said  Sydney,  “ this  is  a desperate  time,  when  desperate  games  are 
played  for  desperate  stakes.  Let  the  Doctor  play  the  winning  game  ; I will  play 
the  losing  one.  No  man’s  life  here  is  worth  purchase.  Any  one  carried  home  by 
the  people  to-day,  may  be  condemned  to-morrow.  Now,  the  stake  I have  resolved 
to  play  for,  in  case  of  the  worst,  is  a friend  in  the  Conciergerie.  And  the  friend 
I purpose  to  myself  to  win,  is  Mr.  Barsad.” 

“You  need  have  good  cards,  sir,”  said  the  spy. 

“ I’ll  run  them  over.  I’ll  see  what  I hold, — Mr.  Lorry,  you  know  what  a brute 
I am  ; I wish  you’d  give  me  a little  brandy.” 

It  was  put  before  him,  and  he  drank  off  a glassful — drank  off  another  glassful — 
pushed  the  bottle  thoughtfully  away. 

“ Mr.  Barsad,”  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  really  was  looking  over  a 
hand  at  cards  : “ Sheep  of  the  prisons,  emissary  of  Republican  committees,  now 
turnkey,  now  prisoner,  always  spy  and  secret  informer,  so  much  the  more  valuable 
here  for  being  English  that  an  Englishman  is  less  open  to  suspicion  of  subornation 
in  those  characters  than  a Frenchman,  represents  himself  to  his  employers  under  a 
false  name.  That’s  a very  good  card.  Mr.  Barsad,  now  in  the  employ  of  the 
republican  French  government,  was  formerly  in  the  employ  of  the  aristocratic 
English  government,  the  enemy  of  France  and  freedom.  That’s  an  excellent  card. 
Inference  clear  as  day  in  this  region  of  suspicion,  that  Mr.  Barsad,  still  in  the  pay 
of  the  aristocratic  English  government,  is  the  spy  of  Pitt,  the  treacherous  foe  of 
the  Republic  crouching  in  its  bosom,  the  English  traitor  and  agent  of  all  mischief 
so  much  spoken  of  and  so  difficult  to  find.  That’s  a card  not  to  be  beaten.  Have 
you  followed  my  hand,  Mr.  Barsad  ?” 

“ Not  to  understand  your  play,”  returned  the  spy,  somewhat  uneasily. 

“ I play  my  Ace,  Denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to  the  nearest  Section  Committee. 
Look  over  your  hand,  Mr.  Barsad,  and  see  what  you  have.  Don’t  hurry.” 

He  drew  the  bottle  near,  poured  out  another  glassful  of  brandy,  and  drank  it 
off.  He  saw  that  the  spy  was  fearful  of  his  drinking  himself  into  a fit  state  for  the 
immediate  denunciation  of  him.  Seeing  it,  he  poured  out  and  drank  another 
glassful. 

“ Look  over  your  hand  carefully,  Mr.  Barsad.  Take  time.” 

It  was  a poorer  hand  than  he  suspected.  Mr.  Barsad  saw  losing  cards  in  it  that 
Sydney  Carton  knew  nothing  of.  Thrown  out  of  his  honourable  employment  in 
England,  through  too  much  unsuccessful  hard  swearing  there — not  because  he  was 
not  wanted  there  ; our  English  reasons  for  vaunting  our  superiority  to  secrecy  and 
spies  are  of  very  modern  date — he  knew  that  he  had  crossed  the  Channel,  and 
accepted  service  in  France  : first,  as  a tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  his 
own  countrymen  there : gradually,  as  a tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  the 
natives.  He  knew  that  under  the  overthrown  government  he  had  been  a spy  upon 
Saint  Antoine  and  Defarge’s  wine-shop ; had  received  from  the  watchful  police 
such  heads  of  information  concerning  Doctor  Manette’s  imprisonment,  release, 
and  history,  as  should  serve  him  for  an  introduction  to  familiar  conversation  with 
the  Defarges  ; and  tried  them  on  Madame  Defarge,  and  had  broken  down  with 
them  signally.  He  always  remembered  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  that  terrible 
woman  had  knitted  when  he  talked  with  her,  and  had  looked  ominously  at  him  as 
her  fingers  moved.  He  had  since  seen  her,  in  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine,  over 
and  over  again  produce  her  knitted  registers,  and  denounce  people  whose  lives  the 
guide  Iff  then  surely  swallcwed  up.  He  knew,  as  every  one  employed  as  he  was 


I7*> 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


did,  that  he  was  never  safe  ; that  flight  was  impossible  ; that  he  was  tied  fast 
under  the  shadow  of  the  axe ; and  that  in  spite  of  his  utmost  tergiversation  and 
treachery  in  furtherance  of  the  rei cuing  terror,  a word  might  bring  it  down  upon 
him.  Once  denounced,  and  on  such  grave  grounds  as  had  just  now  been  suggested 
to  his  mind,  he  foresaw  that  the  dreadful  woman  of  whose  unrelenting  character 
he  had  seen  many  proofs,  would  produce  against  him  that  fatal  register,  and 
would  quash  his  last  chance  of  life.  Besides  that  all  secret  men  are  men  soon 
terrified,  here  were  surely  cards  enough  of  one  black  suit,  to  justify  the  holder  in 
growing  rather  livid  as  he  turned  them  over. 

“You  scarcely  seem  to  like  your  hand,”  said  Sydney,  with  the  greatest  compo- 
sure. “ Do  you  play  ? ” 

“ I think,  sir,”  said  the  spy,  in  the  meanest  manner,  as  he  turned  to  Mr.  Lorry, 
“I  may  appeal  to  a gentleman  of  your  years  and  benevolence,  to  put  it  to  this 
other  gentleman,  so  much  your  junior,  whether  he  can  under  any  circumstances 
reconcile  it  to  his  station  to  play  that  Ace  of  which  he  has  spoken.  I admit  that 
/ am  a spy,  and  that  it  is  considered  a discreditable  station— though  it  must  be 
filled  by  somebody ; but  this  gentleman  is  no  spy,  and  why  should  he  so  demean 
himself  as  to  make  himself  one  ?” 

“ I play  my  Ace,  Mr.  Barsad,”  said  Carton,  taking  the  answer  on  himself,  and 
looking  at  his  watch,  “ without  any  scruple,  in  a very  few  minutes.” 

“ I should  have  hoped,  gentlemen  both,”  said  the  spy,  always  striving  to  hook 

Mr.  Lorry  into  the  discussion,  “ that  your  respect  for  my  sister ” 

“ I could  not  better  testify  my  respect  for  your  sister  than  by  finally  relieving 
her  of  her  brother,”  said  Sydney  Carton. 

“You  think  not,  sir  ?” 

“ I have  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  about  it.” 

The  smooth  manner  of  the  spy,  curiously  in  dissonance  with  his  ostentatiously 
rough  dress,  and  probably  with  his  usual  demeanour,  received  such  a check  from 
the  inscrutability  of  Carton, — who  was  a mystery  to  wiser  and  honester  men  thpn 
he, — that  it  faltered  here  and  failed  him.  While  he  was  at  a loss,  Carton  said, 
resuming  his  former  air  of  contemplating  cards  : 

“ And  indeed,  now  I think  again,  I have  a strong  impression  that  I have 
another  good  card  here,  not  yet  enumerated.  That  friend  and  fellow-Sheep,  who 
spoke  of  himself  as  pasturing  in  the  country  prisons ; who  was  he  ?” 

“ French.  You  don’t  know  him,”  said  the  spy,  quickly. 

“French,  eh?”  repeated  Carton,  musing,  and  not  appearing  to  notice  him  at 
all,  though  he  echoed  his  word.  “ Well ; he  may  be.” 

“Is,  I assure  you,”  said  the  spy  ; “ though  it’s  not  important.” 

“Though  it’s  not  important,”  repeated  Carton,  in  the  same  mechanical  way — 

“ though  it’s  not  important No,  it’s  not  important.  No.  Yet  I know  thf 

face.” 

“ I think  not.  I am  sure  not.  It  can’t  be,”  said  the  spy. 

“It — can’t — be,”  muttered  Sydney  Carton,  retrospectively,  and  filling  his  glasi 
(which  fortunately  was  a small  one)  again.  “ Can’t — be.  Spoke  good  French, 
Yet  like  a foreigner,  I thought  ? ” 

“ Provincial,”  said  the  spy. 

“ No.  Foreign ! ” cried  Carton,  striking  his  open  hand  on  the  table,  as  a light 
broke  clearly  on  his  mind.  “ Cly  ! Disguised,  but  the  same  man.  We  had  that 
man  before  ua  at  the  Old  Bailey.” 

“Now,  there  you  are  hasty,  sir,”  said  Barsad,  with  a smile  that  gave  his 
aquiline  nose  an  extra  inclination  to  one  side  ; “ there  you  really  give  me  an 
advantage  over  you.  Cly  (who  I will  unreservedly  admit,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
was  a paitner  of  mine)  has  been  dead  several  years.  I attended  him  in  his  last 


*77 


An  Honest  Tradesman  wrcngt  d. 

illness.  He  was  buried  in  London,  at  the  church  of  Saint  Pancras-in-the- Fields. 
His  unpopularity  with  the  blackguard  multitude  at  the  moment  prevented  my 
following  his  remains,  but  I helped  to  lay  him  in  his  coffin.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware,  from  where  he  sat,  of  a most  remarkable  goblin 
shadow  on  the  wall.  Tracing  it  to  its  source,  he  discovered  it  to  be  caused  by  a 
sudden  extraordinary  rising  and  stiffening  of  all  the  risen  and  stiff  hair  on  Mr 
Cruncher’s  head. 

“ Let  us  be  reasonable,”  said  the  spy,  “ and  let  us  be  fair.  To  show  you  how 
mistaken  you  are,  and  what  an  unfounded  assumption  yours  is,  I will  lay  before 
vou  a certificate  of  Cly’s  burial,  which  I happen  to  have  carried  in  my  pocket- 
book,”  with  a hurried  hand  he  produced  and  opened  it,  “ ever  since.  There  it  is. 
Oh,  look  at  it,  look  at  it ! You  may  take  it  in  your  hand  ; it’s  no  forgery.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  perceived  the  reflection  on  the  wall  to  elongate,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  rose  and  stepped  forward.  His  hair  could  not  have  been  more  violently 
on  end,  if  it  had  been  that  moment  dressed  by  the  Cow  with  the  crumpled  horn 
in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

Unseen  by  the  spy,  Mr.  Cruncher  stood  at  his  side,  and  touched  him  on  the 
6houlder  like  a ghostly  bailiff. 

“ That  there  Roger  Cly,  master,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  a taciturn  and  iron- 
bound  visage.  “ So  you  put  him  in  his  coffin  ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ Who  took  him  out  of  it  ? ” 

Barsad  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  stammered,  “ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ 1 mean,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  “that  he  warn’t  never  in  it.  No!  Not  he ! 
I’ll  have  my  head  took  off,  if  he  was  ever  in  it.” 

The  spy  looked  round  at  the  two  gentlemen ; they  both  looked  in  unspeakable 
astonishment  at  Jerry. 

“ I tell  you,”  said  Jerry,  “ that  you  buried  paving-stones  and  earth  in  that  there 
coffin.  Don’t  go  and  tell  me  that  you  buried  Cly.  It  was  a take  in.  Me  and 
two  more  knows  it.” 

“ How  do  you  know  it  ? ” 

“ What’s  that  to  you  ? Ecod  ! ” growled  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ it’s  you  I have  got 
a old  grudge  again,  is  it,  with  your  shameful  impositions  upon  tradesmen  ! I’d 
catch  hold  of  your  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a guinea.” 

Sydney  Carton,  who,  with  Mr.  Lorry,  had  been  lost  in  amazement  at  this  turn 
of  the  business,  here  requested  Mr.  Cruncher  to  moderate  and  explain  himself. 

“At  another  time,  sir,”  he  returned,  evasively,  “the  present  time  is  ill-conwenient 
for  explainin’.  What  I stand  to,  is,  that  he  knows  well  wot  that  there  Cly  was 
never  in  that  there  coffin.  Let  him  say  he  was,  in  so  much  as  a word  of  one 
syllable,  and  I’ll  either  catch  hold  of  his  throat  and  choke  him  for  half  a guinea  ; ” 
Mr.  Cruncher  dwelt  upon  this  as  quite  a liberal  offer;  “or  I’ll  out  and  announce  him.” 
“ Humph  ! I see  one  thing,”  said  Carton.  “ I hold  another  card,  Mr.  Barsad. 
Impossible,  here  in  raging  Paris,  with  Suspicion  filling  the  air,  for  you  to  outlive 
denunciation,  when  you  are  in  communication  with  another  aristocratic  spy  of  the 
same  antecedents  as  yourself,  who,  moreover,  has  the  mystery  about  him  of  having 
feigned  death  and  come  to  life  again!  A plot  in  the  prisons,  of  the  foreigner 
against  the  Republic.  A strong  card — a certain  Guillotine  card  ! Do  you  play  ?” 
“ No  ! ” returned  the  spy.  “ I throw  up.  I confess  that  we  were  so  unpopular 
with  the  outrageous  mob,  that  I only  got  away  from  England  at  the  risk  of  being 
ducked  to  death,  and  that  Cly  was  so  ferreted  up  and  down,  that  he  never  would 
have  got  away  at  all  but  for  that  sham.  Though  how  this  man  knows  it  was  a 
sham,  is  a wonder  of  wonders  to  me.” 

“ Never  you  trouble  your  head  about  this  man,”  retorted  the  contentious  Mr 

K 


i78 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Cruncher;  “you’ll  have  trouble  enough  with  giving  your  attention  to  that  gentle- 
man. And  look  here  ! Once  more ! ” — Mr.  Cruncher  could  not  be  restrained 
from  making  rather  an  ostentatious  parade  of  his  liberality — “ I’d  catch  hold  of 
your  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a guinea.” 

The  Sheep  of  the  prisons  turned  from  him  to  Sydney  Carton,  ami  said,  with 
more  decision,  “ It  has  come  to  a point.  I go  on  duty  soon,  and  can’t  overstay 
my  time.  You  told  me  you  had  a proposal  ; what  is  it  ? Now,  it  is  of  no  use 
asking  too  much  of  me.  Ask  me  to  do  anything  in  my  office,  putting  my  head  in 
great  extra  danger,  and  I had  better  trust  my  life  to  the  chances  of  a refusal  than 
the  chances  of  consent.  In  short,  I should  make  that  choice.  You  talk  of  des- 
peration. We  are  all  desperate  here.  Remember!  I may  denounce  you  if  I 
think  proper,  and  I can  swear  my  way  through  stone  walls,  and  so  can  others. 
Now,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ? ” 

“Not  very  much.  You  are  a turnkey  at  the  Conciergerie  ? ” 

“ I tell  you  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  escape  possible,”  said  the 
spy,  firmly. 

“ Why  need  you  tell  me  what  I have  not  asked  ? You  are  a turnkey  at  the 
Conciergerie  ? ” 

“ I am  sometimes.” 

“You  can  be  when  you  choose  ? ” 

“ I can  pass  in  and  out  when  I choose.” 

Sydney  Carton  filled  another  glass  with  brandy,  poured  it  slowly  out  upon  the 
hearth,  and  watched  it  as  it  dropped.  It  being  all  spent,  he  said,  rising  : 

“ So  far,  we  have  spoken  before  these  two,  because  it  was  as  well  that  the 
merits  of  the  cards  should  not  rest  solely  between  you  and  me.  Come  into  the 
dark  room  here,  and  let  us  have  one  final  word  alone.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  GAME  MADE. 

While  Sydney  Carton  and  the  Sheep  of  the  prisons  were  in  the  adjoining  dark 
room,  speaking  so  low  that  not  a sound  was  heard,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  at  Jerry  in 
considerable  doubt  and  mistrust.  That  honest  tradesman’s  manner  of  receiving 
the  look,  did  not  inspire  confidence  ; he  changed  the  leg  on  which  he  rested,  as 
often  as  if  he  had  fifty  of  those  limbs,  and  were  trying  them  all ; he  examined  his 
finger-nails  with  a very  questionable  closeness  of  attention  ; and  whenever  Mr. 
Lorry’s  eye  caught  his,  he  was  taken  with  that  peculiar  kind  of  short  cough 
requiring  the  hollow  of  a hand  before  it,  which  is  seldom,  if  ever,  known  to  be 
an  infirmity  attendant  on  perfect  openness  of  character. 

“Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Come  here.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  forward  sideways,  with  one  of  his  shoulders  in  advance  of  him. 

“ What  have  you  been,  besides  a messenger  ? ” 

After  some  cogitation,  accompanied  with  an  intent  look  at  his  patron,  Mr. 
Cruncher  conceived  the  luminous  idea  of  replying,  “ Agricultooral  character.” 

“ My  mind  misgives  me  much,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  angrily  shaking  a forefinger  at 
him,  “ that  you  have  used  the  respectable  and  great  house  of  Tellson’s  as  a blind, 
and  that  you  have  had  an  unlawful  occupation  of  an  infamous  description.  If  you 
aave,  don’t  expect  me  to  befriend  you  when  you  get  back  to  England.  If  you 
have,  don’t  expect  me  to  keep  your  secret.  Tellson's  shall  not  be  imposed  upon.” 

“I  hope,  sir,”  pleaded  the  abashed  Mr.  Cruncher,  “that  a gentleman  like 


Mr.  Cruncher  s Protest . 


179 


yourself  wot  I’ve  had  the  honour  of  odd  jobbing  till  I’m  grey  at  it,  would  think 
twice  about  harming  of  me,  even  if  it  wos  so — I don’t  say  it  is,  but  even  if  it  wos. 
And  whi  'h  it  is  to  be  took  into  account  that  if  it  wos,  it  wouldn’t,  even  then,  be 
all  o’  one  side.  There’d  be  two  sides  to  it.  There  might  be  medical  doctors  at 
the  present  hour,  a picking  up  their  guineas  where  a honest  tradesman  don’t  pick 
up  his  fardens — fardens  ! no,  nor  yet  his  half  fardens — half  fardens  ! no,  nor  yet 
his  quarter — a banking  away  like  smoke  at  Tellson’s,  and  a cocking  their  medical 
eyes  at  that  tradesman  on  the  sly,  a going  in  and  going  out  to  their  own  carriages 
. — ah  ! equally  like  smoke,  if  not  more  so.  Well,  that  ’ud  be  imposing,  too,  on 
Tellson’s.  For  you  cannot  sarse  the  goose  and  not  the  gander.  And  here’s  Mrs. 
Cruncher,  or  leastways  wos  in  the  Old  England  times,  and  would  be  to-morrow,  if 
cause  given,  a floppin’  again  the  business  to  that  degree  as  is  ruinating — stark 
ruinating  ! Whereas  them  medical  doctors*  wives  don’t  flop — catch  ’em  at  it ! 
Or,  if  they  flop,  their  floppings  goes  in  favour  of  more  patients,  and  how  can  you 
rightly  have  one  without  the  t’other  ? Then,  wot  with  undertakers,  and  wot  with 
parish  clerks,  and  wot  with  sextons,  and  wot  with  private  watchmen  (all  awaricious 
and  all  in  it),  a man  wouldn’t  get  much  by  it,  even  if  it  wos  so.  And  wot  little  a 
man  did  get,  would  never  prosper  with  him,  Mr.  Lorry.  He’d  never  have  no 
good  of  it ; he’d  want  all  along  to  be  out  of  the  line,  if  he  could  see  his  way  out, 
being  once  in — even  if  it  wos  so.” 

“Ugh!”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  relenting,  nevertheless.  “Iam  shocked  at 
the  sight  of  you.” 

“Now,  what  I would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,”  pursued  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ even 
if  it  wos  so,  which  I don’t  say  it  is ” 

“ Don’t  prevaricate,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“No,  I will  not , sir,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  as  if  nothing  were  further  from 
his  thoughts  or  practice — “ which  I don’t  say  it  is — wot  I would  humbly  offer  to 
you,  sir,  would  be  this.  Upon  that  there  stool,  at  that  there  Bar,  sets  that  there 
boy  of  mine,  brought  up  and  growed  up  to  be  a man,  wot  will  errand  you,  message 
you,  general-light-job  you,  till  your  heels  is  where  your  head  is,  if  such  should  be 
your  wishes.  If  it  wos  so.  which  I still  don’t  say  it  is  (for  I will  not  prewaricate 
to  you,  sir),  let  that  there  boy  keep  his  father’s  place,  and  take  care  of  his  mother; 
don’t  blow  upon  that  boy’s  father — do  not  do  it,  sir — and  let  that  father  go  into 
the  line  of  the  reg’lar  diggin’,  and  make  amends  for  what  he  would  have  un-dug 
— if  it  wos  so — by  diggin’  of  ’em  in  with  a will,  and  with  conwictions  respectin’  the 
futur’  keepin’  of ’em  safe.  That,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  wiping  his  fore- 
head with  his  arm,  as  an  announcement  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  peroration  of 
his  discourse,  “is  wot  I would  respectfully  offer  to  you,  sir.  A man  don’t  see  all 
this  here  a goin’  on  dreadful  round  him,  in  the  way  of  Subjects  without  heads, 
dear  me,  plentiful  enough  fur  to  bring  the  price  down  to  porterage  and  hardbf 
that,  without  havin’  his  serious  thoughts  of  things.  And  these  here  would  b$ 
mine,  if  it  wos  so,  entreatin’  of  you  fur  to  bear  in  mind  that  wot  I said  just  now, 
I up  and  said  in  the  good  cause  when  I might  have  kep’  it  back.” 

“ That  at  least  is  true,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Say  no  more  now.  It  may  be  that 
I shall  yet  stand  your  friend,  if  you  deserve  it,  and  repent  in  action — not  in  words. 
I want  no  more  words.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  knuckled  his  forehead,  as  Sydney  Carton  and  the  spy  returned 
from  the  dark  room.  “Adieu,  Mr.  Barsad,”  said  the  former;  “our  arrangement 
thus  made,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.” 

He  sat  down  in  a chair  on  the  hearth,  over  against  Mr.  Lorry.  When  they 
were  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  what  he  had  done  ? 

“Not  much.  If  it  should  go  ill  with  the  prisoner,  I have  ensured  access  to  him, 
once.’* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


(80 


Mr,  Lorry’s  countenance  fell. 

“It  is  all  I could  do,”  said  Carton.  “To  propose  too  much,  would  be  to  put 
Ibis  man’s  head  under  the  axe,  and,  as  he  himself  said,  nothing  worse  could  happen 
to  him  if  he  were  denounced.  It  was  obviously  the  weakness  of  the  position 
There  is  no  help  for  it.” 

“ But  access  to  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “if  it  should  go  ill  before  the  Tribunal, 
will  not  save  him.” 

“ I never  said  it  would.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  gradually  sought  the  fire ; his  sympathy  with  his  darling,  and 
the  heavy  disappointment  of  this  second  arrest,  gradually  weakened  them  ; he  was 
an  old  man  now,  overborne  with  anxiety  of  late,  and  his  tears  fell. 

“You  are  a good  man  and  a true  friend,”  said  Carton,  in  an  altered  voice. 
“ Forgive  me  if  I notice  that  you  are  affected.  I could  not  see  my  father  weep, 
and  sit  by,  careless.  And  I could  not  respect  your  sorrow  more,  if  you  were  my 
father.  You  are  free  from  that  misfortune,  however.” 

Though  he  said  the  last  words,  with  a slip  into  his  usual  manner,  there  was  a 
true  feeling  and  respect  both  in  his  tone  and  in  his  touch,  that  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
never  seen  the  better  side  of  him,  was  wholly  unprepared  for.  He  gave  him  his 
hand,  and  Carton  gently  pressed  it. 

“To  return  to  poor  Darnay,”  said  Carton.  “Don’t  tell  Her  of  this  interview, 
or  this  arrangement.  It  would  not  enable  Her  to  go  to  see  him.  She  might  think 
it  was  contrived,  in  case  of  the  worst,  to  convey  to  him  the  means  of  anticipating 
die  sentence.” 

Mr.  Lorry  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  looked  quickly  at  Carton  to  see 
if  it  were  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  to  be ; he  returned  the  look,  and  evidently 
understood  it. 

“ She  might  think  a thousand  things,”  Carton  said,  “and  any  of  them  would 
only  add  to  her  trouble.  Don’t  speak  of  me  to  her.  As  I said  to  you  when  I 
first  came,  I had  better  not  see  her.  I can  put  my  hand  out,  to  do  any  little  help- 
ful work  for  her  that  my  hand  can  find  to  do,  without  that.  You  are  going  to  her, 
I hope  ? She  must  be  very  desolate  to-night.” 

“I  am  going  now,  directly.” 

“ I am  glad  of  that.  She  has  such  a strong  attachment  to  you  and  reliance  on 
you.  How  does  she  look  ?” 

“Anxious  and  unhappy,  but  very  beautiful.” 

“ Ah!” 

It  was  a long,  grieving  sound,  like  a sigh — almost  like  a sob.  It  attracted  Mr. 
Lorry’s  eyes  to  Carton’s  face,  which  was  turned  to  the  fire.  A light,  or  a shade 
(the  old  gentleman  could  not  have  said  which),  passed  from  it  as  swiftly  as  a change 
will  sweep  over  a hill-side  on  a wild  bright  day,  and  he  lifted  his  foot  to  put  back 
one  of  the  little  flaming  logs,  which  was  tumbling  forward.  He  wore  the  white 
riding-coat  and  top-boots,  then  in  vogue,  and  the  light  of  the  fire  touching  then- 
light  surfaces  made  him  look  very  pale,  with  his  long  brown  hair,  all  untrimmed, 
hanging  loose  about  him.  His  indifference  to  fire  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to 
elicit  a word  of  remonstrance  from  Mr.  Lorry ; his  boot  was  still  upon  the  hot 
embers  of  the  flaming  log,  when  it  had  broken  under  the  weight  of  his  foot. 

“I  forgot  it,”  he  said. 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  his  face.  Taking  note  of  the  wasted 
air  which  clouded  the  naturally  handsome  features,  and  having  the  expression  of 
prisoners’  faces  fresh  in  his  mind,  he  was  strongly  reminded  of  that  expression. 

“And  your  duties  here  have  drawn  to  an  end,  sir?”  said  Carton,  turning 
to  him. 

“Yes.  As  1 wag  tilling  you  last  night  when  Lucie  came  in  so  unexpectedly,  I 


Sydney  Carton  and  Mr.  Lorry . 


18 


have  at  length  done  all  that  I can  do  here.  I hoped  to  have  left  them  in  perfec 
safety,  and  then  to  have  quitted  Paris.  I have  my  Leave  to  Pass.  I was  read} 
to  go.” 

They  were  both  silent. 

“ Yours  is  a long  life  to  look  back  upon,  sir  ?”  said  Carton,  wistfully. 

“ I am  in  my  seventy-eighth  year.” 

“ You  have  been  useful  all  your  life  ; steadily  and  constantly  occupied  ; trusted, 
respected,  and  looked  up  to  ?” 

“ I have  been  a man  of  business,  ever  since  I have  been  a man.  Indeed,  I may 
say  that  I was  a man  of  business  when  a boy.” 

“ See  what  a place  you  fill  at  seventy-eight.  How  many  people  will  miss  you 
when  you  leave  it  empty  ! ” 

“A  solitary  old  bachelor,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his  head.  “There  is 
nobody  to  weep  for  me.” 

“How  can  you  say  that?  Wouldn’t  She  weep  for  you?  Wouldn’t  hex 
child  ?” 

“Yes,  yes,  thank  God.  I didn’t  quite  mean  what  I said.” 

“ It  is  a thing  to  thank  God  for ; is  it  not  ? ” 

“ Surely,  surely.” 

“ If  you  could  say,  with  truth,  to  your  own  solitary  heart,  to-night,  ‘ I have 
secured  to  myself  the  love  and  attachment,  the  gratitude  or  respect,  of  no  human 
creature ; I have  won  myself  a tender  place  in  no  regard  ; I have  done  nothing 
good  or  serviceable  to  be  remembered  by  ! ’ your  seventy-eight  years  would  be 
seventy-eight  heavy  curses  ; would  they  not  ?” 

“ You  say  truly,  Mr.  Carton  ; I think  they  would  be.” 

Sydney  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  fire,  and,  after  a silence  of  a lew 
moments,  said  : 

“ I should  like  to  ask  you  : — Does  your  childhood  seem  far  off?  Do  the  days 
when  you  sat  at  your  mother’s  knee,  seem  days  of  very  long  ago  ?” 

Responding  to  his  softened  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  answered  : 

“Twenty  years  back,  yes^  at  this  time  of  my  life,  no.  For,  as  I draw  closer 
and  closer  to  the  end,  I travel  in  the  circle,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning. 
It  seems  to  be  one  of  the  kind  smoothings  and  preparings  of  the  way.  My  heart 
is  touched  now,  by  many  remembrances  that  had  long  fallen  asleep,  of  my  pretty 
young  mother  (and  I so  old !),  and  by  many  associations  of  the  days  when  what 
we  call  the  World  was  not  so  real  with  me,  and  my  faults  were  not  confirmed 
in  me.” 

“ I understand  the  feeling  ! ” exclaimed  Carton,  with  a bright  flush.  “ And  you 
are  the  better  for  it  ?” 

“ I hope  so.” 

Carton  terminated  the  conversation  here,  by  rising  to  help  him  on  with  his  outei 
coat ; “ but  you,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  reverting  to  the  theme,  “ you  are  young.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Carton.  “ I am  not  old,  but  my  young  way  was  never  the  way  to 
age.  Enough  of  me.” 

“ And  of  me,  I am  sure,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Are  you  going  out  ?” 

“ I’ll  walk  with  you  to  her  gate.  You  know  my  vagabond  and  restless  habits. 
If  I should  prowl  about  the  streets  a long  time,  don’t  be  ua  asy ; I shall  reappear 
in  the  morning.  You  go  to  the  Court  to-morrow  ?” 

“ Yes,  unhappily.” 

“ I shall  be  there,  but  only  as  one  of  the  crowd.  My  Spy  will  find  a place  for 
me.  Take  my  arm,  sir.” 

Mr.  Lorry  did  so,  and  they  went  down  stairs  and  out  in  the  streets.  A few 
minutes  brought  them  to  Mr.  Lorry’s  destination.  Carton  left  him  there;  but 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


r8s 


lingered  at  a little  distance,  and  turned  back  to  the  gate  again  when  it  was  shui, 
and  touched  it.  He  had  heard  of  her  going  to  the  prison  every  Jay.  “ She  came 
out  here,”  1 e said,  looking  about  him,  “ turned  this  way,  must  have  trod  on  these 
stones  often  Let  me  follow  in  her  steps.” 

It  was  ten  o’clock  at  night  when  he  stood  before  the  prison  of  La  Force,  whei* 
she  had  stood  hundreds  of  times.  A little  wood-sawyer,  having  closed  his  shop- 
was  smoking  his  pipe  at  his  shop-door. 

“Good  night,  citizen,”  said  Sydney  Carton,  pausing  in  going  by;  for,  the  man 
eyed  him  inquisitively. 

“ Good  night,  citizen.” 

“ How  goes  the  Republic  ?” 

“You  mean  the  Guillotine.  Not  ill.  Sixty-three  to-day.  We  shall  mount  to 
a hundred  soon.  Samson  and  his  men  complain  sometimes,  of  being  exhausted. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! He  is  so  droll,  that  Samson.  Such  a Barber !” 

“ Do  you  often  go  to  see  him ” 

“ Shave  ? Always.  Every  day.  What  a barber ! You  have  seen  him  at  work  ? 99 
“ Never.” 

“ Go  and  see  him  when  he  has  a good  batch.  Figure  this  to  yourself,  citizen  , 
he  shaved  the  sixty-three  to-day,  in  less  than  two  pipes ! Less  than  two  pipes. 
Word  of  honour ! ” 

As  the  grinning  little  man  held  out  the  pipe  he  was  smoking,  to  explain  how  he 
timed  the  executioner,  Carton  was  so  sensible  of  a rising  desire  to  strike  the  life 
out  of  him,  that  he  turned  away. 

“ But  you  are  not  English,”  said  the  wood-sawyer,  “though  you  wear  English 
dress  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  Carton,  pausing  again,  and  answering  over  his  shoulder. 

“You  speak  like  a Frenchman.” 

“ I am  an  old  student  here.” 

“ Aha,  a perfect  Frenchman  ! Good  night,  Englishman.” 

“ Good  night,  citizen.” 

“ But  go  and  see  that  droll  dog,”  the  little  man  persisted,  calling  after  him. 
“And  take  a pipe  with  you!” 

Sydney  had  not  gone  far  out  of  sight,  when  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  under  a glimmering  lamp,  and  wrote  with  his  pencil  on  a scrap  of  paper. 
Then,  traversing  with  the  decided  step  of  one  who  remembered  the  way  well, 
several  dark  and  dirty  streets — much  dirtier  than  usual,  for  the  best  public 
thoroughfares  remained  uncleansed  in  those  times  of  terror — he  stopped  at  a 
chemist’s  shop,-  which  the  owner  was  closing  with  his  own  hands.  A small, 
dim,  crooked  shop,  kept  in  a tortuous,  up-hill  thoroughfare,  by  a small,  dim, 
crooked  man. 

Giving  this  citizen,  too,  good  night,  as  he  confronted  him  at  his  counter,  he  laid 
the  scrap  of  paper  before  him.  “ Whew  ! ” the  chemist  whistled  softly,  as  he  read 
it.  “Hi!  hi!  hi!” 

Sydney  Carton  took  no  heed,  and  the  chemist  said  : 

“ F'or  you,  citizen  ?” 

“ For  me.” 

“You  will  be  careful  to  keep  them  separate,  citizen?  You  know  the  conse- 
quences of  mixing  them  ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

Certain  small  packets  were  made  and  given  to  him.  He  put  them,  one  by  one, 
in  the  breast  of  his  inner  coat,  counted  out  the  money  for  them,  and  deliberately 
left  the  shop.  “ There  is  nothing  more  to  do,”  said  he,  glancing  upward  at  th« 
moon,  “ until  to-morrow.  I can’t  sleep.” 


The  shadow  of  Death. 


183 


It  was  not  a reckless  manner,  the  manner  in  which  he  said  these  words  aloud 
under  the  fast-sailing  clouds,  nor  was  it  more  expressive  of  negligence  than 
defiance.  It  was  the  settled  manner  of  a tired  man,  who  had  wandered  and 
struggled  and  got  lost,  but  who  at  length  struck  into  his  road  and  saw  its  end. 

Long  ago,  when  he  had  been  famous  among  his  earliest  competitors  as  a youth 
of  great  promise,  he  had  followed  his  father  to  the  grave.  His  mother  had  died, 
years  before.  These  solemn  words,  which  had  been  read  at  his  father’s  grave, 
arose  in  his  mind  as  he  went  down  the  dark  streets,  among  the  heavy  shadows, 
with  the  moon  and  the  clouds  sailing  on  high  above  him.  “I  am  the  resurrection 
and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  : he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  weie  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live  : and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die.” 

In  a city  dominated  by  the  axe,  alone  at  night,  with  natural  sorrow  rising  in  him 
for  the  sixty-three  who  had  been  that  day  put  to  death,  and  for  to-morrow’s  victims 
then  awaiting  their  doom  in  the  prisons,  and  still  of  to-morrow’s  and  to-morrow’s, 
the  chain  of  association  that  brought  the  words  home,  like  a rusty  old  ship’s  anchor 
from  the  deep,  might  have  been  easily  found.  He  did  not  seek  it,  but  repeated 
them  and  went  on. 

With  a solemn  interest  in  the  lighted  windows  where  the  people  were  going  to 
rest,  forgetful  through  a few  calm  hours  of  the  horrors  surrounding  them  ; in  the 
towers  of  the  churches,  where  no  prayers  were  said,  for  the  popular  revulsion  had 
even  travelled  that  length  of  self-destruction  from  years  of  priestly  impostors, 
plunderers,  and  profligates  ; in  the  distant  burial-places,  reserved,  as  they  wrote 
upon  the  gates,  for  Eternal  Sleep  ; in  the  abounding  gaols ; and  in  the  streets 
along  which  the  sixties  rolled  to  a death  which  had  become  so  common  and 
material,  that  no  sorrowful  story  of  a haunting  Spirit  ever  arose  among  the  people 
out  of  all  the  working  of  the  Guillotine ; with  a solemn  interest  in  the  whole  life 
and  death  of  the  city  settling  down  to  its  short  nightly  pause  in  fury ; Sydney 
Carton  crossed  the  Seine  again  for  the  lighter  streets. 

Few  coaches  were  abroad,  for  riders  in  coaches  were  liable  to  be  suspected,  and 
gentility  hid  its  head  in  red  nightcaps,  and  put  on  heavy  shoes,  and  trudged.  But, 
the  theatres  were  all  well  filled,  and  the  people  poured  cheerfully  out  as  he  passed, 
and  went  chatting  home.  At  one  of  the  theatre  doors,  there  was  a little  girl  with 
a mother,  looking  for  a way  across  the  street  through  the  mud,  He  carried 
the  child  over,  and  before  the  timid  arm  was  loosed  from  his  neck  asked  her 
for  a kiss. 

“ I am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord  : he  that  believeth  in  me, 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  : and  whosever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  * 
shall  never  die.” 

Now,  that  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  the  night  wore  on,  the  words  were  in  the 
echoes  of  his  feet,  and  were  in  the  air.  Perfectly  calm  and  steady,  he  sometimes 
repeated  them  to  himself  as  he  walked  ; but,  he  heard  them  always. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge  listening  to  the  water  as 
it  splashed  the  river- walls  of  the  Island  of  Paris,  where  the  picturesque  confusion 
of  houses  and  cathedral  shone  bright  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  the  day  came  coldly, 
looking  like  a dead  face  out  of  the  sky.  Then,  the  night,  with  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  turned  pale  and  died,  and  for  a little  while  it  seemed  as  if  Creation  were 
delivered  over  to  Death’s  dominion. 

But,  the  glorious  sun,  rising,  seemed  to  strike  those  words,  that  burden  of  the 
night,  straight  and  warm  to  his  heart  in  its  long  bright  rays.  And  looking  along 
them,  with  reverently  shaded  eyes,  a bridge  of  light  appeared  to  span  the  aii 
between  him  and  the  sun,  while  the  river  sparkled  under  it. 

The  strong  tide,,  so  swift,  so  deep,  and  certain,  was  like  a congenial  friend,  in  the 
morning  stillness.  He  walked  by  the  stream,  far  from  the  houses,  and  in  the  light 


f 84 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


and  warmch  of  the  sun  fell  asleep  on  the  bank.  When  he  awoke  and  wav  *foot 
again,  he  lingered  there  yet  a little  longer,  watching  an  eddy  that  turned  and 
turned  purposeless,  until  the  stream  absorbed  it,  and  carried  it  on  to  the  sea. — 
“ Like  me  ! ” 

A trading-boat,  with  a sail  of  the  softened  colour  of  a dead  leaf,  then  glided  into 
his  view,  floated  by  him,  and  died  away.  As  its  silent  track  in  the  water  dis- 
appeared, the  prayer  that  had  broken  up  out  of  his  heart  for  a merciful  consider- 
ation of  all  his  poor  blindnesses  and  errors,  ended  in  the  words,  “I  am  the 
resurrection  and  the  life.,, 

Mr.  Lorry  was  already  out  when  he  got  back,  and  it  was  easy  to  surmise  where 
the  good  old  man  was  gone.  Sydney  Carton  drank  nothing  but  a little  coffee,  ate 
some  bread,  and,  having  washed  and  changed  to  refresh  himself,  went  out  to  the 
place  of  trial. 

The  court  was  all  astir  and  a-buzz,  when  the  black  sheep — whom  many  fell 
away  from  in  dread — pressed  him  into  an  obscure  corner  among  the  crowd.  Mr. 
Lorry  was  there,  and  Doctor  Manette  was  there.  She  was  there,  sitting  beside 
her  father. 

When  her  husband  was  brought  in,  she  turned  a look  upon  him,  so  sustaining, 
so  encouraging,  so  full  of  admiring  love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  courageous 
for  his  sake,  that  it  called  the  healthy  blood  into  his  face,  brightened  his  glance, 
and  animated  his  heart.  If  there  had  been  any  eyes  to  notice  the  influence  of  her 
look,  on  Sydney  Carton,  it  would  have  been  seen  to  be  the  same  influence  exactly. 

Before  that  unjust  Tribunal,  there  was  little  or  no  order  of  procedure,  ensuring 
to  any  accused  person  any  reasonable  hearing.  There  could  have  been  no  such 
Revolution,  if  all  laws,  forms,  and  ceremonies,  had  not  first  been  so  monstrously 
abused,  that  the  suicidal  vengeance  of  the  Revolution  was  to  scatter  them  all 
to  the  winds. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  the  jury.  The  same  determined  patriots  and  good 
republicans  as  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after. 
Eager  and  prominent  among  them,  one  man  with  a craving  face,  and  his  fingers 
perpetually  hovering  about  his  lips,  whose  appearance  gave  great  satisfaction  to 
the  spectators.  A life-thirsting,  cannibal-looking,  bloody-minded  juryman,  the 
Jacques  Three  of  St.  Antoine.  The  whole  jury,  as  a jury  of  dogs  empannelled 
to  try  the  deer. 

Every  eye  then  turned  to  the  five  judges  and  the  public  prosecutor.  No  favour- 
able leaning  in  that  quarter  to-day.  A fell,  uncompromising,  murderous  business- 
meaning  there.  Every  eye  then  sought  some  other  eye  in  the  crowd,  and  gleamed 
at  it  approvingly ; and  heads  nodded  at  one  another,  before  bending  forward  with 
a strained,  attention. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay.  Released  yesterday.  Re-accused  and 
retaken  yesterday.  Indictment  delivered  to  him  last  night.  Suspected  and 
Denounced  enemy  of  the  Republic,  Aristocrat,  one  of  a family  of  tyrants,  one  ol 
a race  proscribed,  for  that  they  had  used  their  abolished  privileges  t)  the  infamous 
oppression  of  the  people.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  in  right  of  such 
proscription,  absolutely  Dead  in  Law. 

To  this  effect,  in  as  few  or  fewer  words,  the  Public  Prosecutor. 

The  President  asked,  was  the  Accused  openly  denounced  or  secretly  1 

u Openly,  President. ” 

“ By  whom  ? ” 

“ Three  voices..  Ernest  Defarge,  wine-vendor  of  St.  Antoine.” 

Good.’’ 

‘‘  Ther&se  Defarge,  his  wife.” 

‘ Good.” 


Denounced  of  three  voices. 


185 


“ Alexandre  Manette,  physician.” 

A great  uproar  took  place  in  the  court,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  Doctor  Manette 
was  seen,  pale  and  trembling,  standing  where  he  had  been  seated. 

“ President,  I indignantly  protest  to  you  that  this  is  a forgery  and  a fraud.  You 
know  the  accused  to  be  the  husband  of  my  daughter.  My  daughter,  and  those 
dear  to  her,  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  life.  Who  and  where  is  the  false  con- 
spirator who  says  that  I denounce  the  husband  of  my  child ! ” 

“ Citizen  Manette,  be  tranquil.  To  fail  in  submission  to  the  authority  of  the 
Tribunal  would  be  to  put  yourself  out  of  Law.  As  to  what  is  dearer  to  you  than 
life,  nothing  can  be  so  dear  to  a good  citizen  as  the  Republic.” 

Loud  acclamations  hailed  this  rebuke.  The  President  rang  his  bell,  and  with 
Warmth  resumed. 

“ If  the  Republic  should  demand  of  you  the  sacrifice  of  your  child  herself,  you 
would  have  no  duty  but  to  sacrifice  her.  Listen  to  what  is  to  follow.  In  the 
meanwhile,  be  silent ! ” 

Frantic  acclamations  were  again  raised.  Doctor  Manette  sat  down,  with  his  eyes 
looking  around,  and  his  lips  trembling;  his  daughter  drew  closer  to  him.  The  craving 
man  on  the  jury  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  restored  the  usual  hand  to  his  mouth. 

Defarge  was  produced,  when  the  court  was  quiet  enough  to  admit  of  his  being 
heard,  and  rapidly  expounded  the  story  of  the  imprisonment,  and  of  his„  having 
been  a mere  boy  in  the  Doctor’s  service,  and  of  the  release,  and  of  the  state  of 
the  prisoner  when  released  and  delivered  to  him.  This  short  examination  followed, 
for  the  court  was  quick  with  its  work. 

“ You  did  good  service  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastille,  citizen  ? ” 

“ I believe  so.” 

Here,  an  excited  woman  screeched  from  the  crowd : “You  were  one  of  the  best 
patriots  there.  Why  not  say  so  ? You  were  a cannonier  that  day  there,  and  you 
were  among  the  first  to  enter  the  accursed  fortress  when  it  fell.  Patriots,  I speak 
the  truth ! ” 

It  was  The  Vengeance  who,  amidst  the  warm  commendations  of  the  audience, 
thus  assisted  the  proceedings.  The  President  rang  his  bell ; but,  The  Vengeance, 
warming  with  encouragement,  shrieked,  “I  defy  that  bell !”  wherein  she  was 
likewise  much  commended. 

“ Inform  the  Tribunal  of  what  you  did  that  day  within  the  Bastille,  citizen.” 

“ I knew,”  said  Defarge,  looking  down  at  his  wife,  who  stood  at  the  bottom  of 
the  steps  on  which  he  was  raised,  looking  steadily  up  at  him  ; “I  knew  that  this 
prisoner,  of  whom  I speak,  had  been  confined  in  a cell  known  as  One  Hundred 
and  Five,  North  Tower.  I knew  it  from  himself.  He  knew  himself  by  no  other 
name  than  One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower,  when  he  made  shoes  under  my 
care.  As  I serve  my  gun  that  day,  I resolve,  when  the  place  shall  fall,  to  examine 
that  cell.  It  falls.  I mount  to  the  cell,  with  a fellow-citizen  who  is  one  of  the 
Jury,  directed  by  a gaoler.  I examine  it,  very  closely.  In  a hole  in  the  chimney, 
where  a stone  has  been  worked  out  and  replaced,  I find  a written  paper.  This  is 
that  written  paper.  I have  made  it  my  business  to  examine  some  specimens  of 
the  writing  of  Dr.  Manette.  This  is  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  I confide 
this  paper,  in  the  writing  of  Doctor  Manette,  to  the  hands  of  the  President.” 

“ Let  it  be  read.” 

In  a dead  silence  and  stillness — the  prisoner  under  trial  looking  lovingly  at  his 
wife,  his  wife  only  looking  from  him  to  look  with  solicitude  at  her  father,  Doctor 
Manette  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  reader,  Madame  Defarge  never  taking  hers 
from  the  prisoner,  Defarge  never  taking  his  from  his  feasting  wife,  and  all  the 
other  eyes  there  intent  upon  the  Doctor,  who  saw  none  of  them — the  paper  wa* 
read,  as  follows. 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


186 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

“I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unfortunate  physician,  native  of  Beauvais,  and  after* 
wards  resident  in  Paris,  write  this  melancholy  paper  in  my  doleful  cell  in  the 
Bastille,  during  the  last  month  of  the  year,  1767.  I write  it  at  stolen  intervals, 
under  every  difficulty.  I design  to  secrete  it  in  the  wall  of  the  chimney,  where  I 
have  slowly  and  laboriously  made  a place  of  concealment  for  it.  Some  pitying 
hand  may  find  it  there,  when  I and  my  sorrows  are  dust. 

“ These  words  are  formed  by  the  rusty  iron  point  with  which  I write  with  diffi- 
culty in  scrapings  of  soot  and  charcoal  from  the  chimney,  mixed  with  blood,  in 
the  last  month  of  the  tenth  year  of  my  captivity.  Hope  has  quite  departed  from 
my  breast.  I know  from  terrible  warnings  I have  noted  in  myself  that  my  reason 
will  not  long  remain  unimpaired,  but  I solemnly  declare  that  I am  at  this  time  in 
the  possession  of  my  right  mind — that  my  memory  is  exact  and  circumstantial — 
and  that  I write  the  truth  as  I shall  answer  for  these  my  last  recorded  words, 
whether  they  be  ever  read  by  men  or  not,  at  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat. 

“ One  cloudy  moonlight  night,  in  the  third  week  of  December  (I  think  the 
twenty-second  of  the  month)  in  the  year  1757, 1 was  walking  on  a retired  part  of  the 
quay  by  the  Seine  for  the  refreshment  of  the  frosty  air,  at  an  hour’s  distance  from 
my  place  of  residence  in  the  Street  of  the  School  of  Medicine,  when  a carriage 
came  along  behind  me,  driven  very  fast.  As  I stood  aside  to  let  that  carriage 
pass,  apprehensive  that  it  might  otherwise  run  me  down,  a head  was  put  out  at 
the  window,  and  a voice  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

“ The  carriage  stopped  as  soon  as  the  driver  could  rein  in  his  horses,  and  the 
same  voice  called  to  me  by  my  name.  I answered.  The  carriage  was  then  so 
far  in  advance  of  me  that  two  gentlemen  had  time  to  open  the  door  and  alight 
before  I came  up  with  it.  I observed  that  they  were  both  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and 
appeared  to  conceal  themselves.  As  .they  stood  side  by  side  near  the  carriage 
door,  I also  observed  that  they  both  looked  of  about  my  own  age,  or  rather 
younger,  and  that  they  were  greatly  alike,  in  stature,  manner,  voice,  and  (as  far  as 
I could  see)  face  too. 

“ ‘ You  are  Doctor  Manette  ? ’ said  one. 

“ ‘ I am.’ 

“ ‘ Doctor  Manette,  formerly  of  Beauvais,’  said  the  other  ; ‘ the  young  physician, 
originally  an  expert  surgeon,  who  within  the  last  year  or  two  has  made  a rising 
reputation  in  Paris  ? 5 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’  I returned,  ‘ I am  that  Doctor  Manette  of  whom  you  speak  so 
graciously.’ 

“ ‘ We  have  been  to  your  residence,’  said  the  first,  ‘ and  not  being  so  fortunate 
as  to  find  you  there,  and  being  informed  that  you  were  probably  walking  in  this 
direction,  we  followed,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  you.  Will  you  please  to  enter 
the  carriage  ? ’ 

“The  manner  of  both  was  imperious,  and  they  both  moved,  as  these  words 
were  spoken,  so  as  to  place  me  between  themselves  and  the  carriage  door.  They 
were  armed.  I was  not. 

“‘Gentlemen,’  said  I,  ‘pardon  me;  but  I usually  inquire  who  does  me  the 
honour  to  seek  my  assistance,  and  what  is  the  nature  of  the  case  to  which  I am 
summoned.’ 

“ The  reply  tc  this  was  made  by  him  who  had  spoken  second.  ‘ Doctor,  youi 


*1  be  Bastille  Prisoner  s Manuscript . 


187 


rlients  are  people  of  condition.  As  to  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  confidence  in 
your  skill  assures  us  that  you  will  ascertain  it  for  yourself  better  than  we  can  de- 
scribe it.  Enough.  Will  you  please  to  enter  the  carriage  ? * 

“ I could  do  nothing  but  comply,  and  I entered  it  in  silence.  They  both  entered 
after  me — the  last  springing  in,  after  putting  up  the  steps.  The  carriage  turned 
about,  and  drove  on  at  its  former  speed. 

“ I repeat  this  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred.  I have  no  doubt  that  it  is, 
word  for  word,  the  same.  I describe  everything  exactly  as  it  took  place,  con- 
straining my  mind  not  to  wander  from  the  task.  Where  I make  the  broken 
marks  that  follow  here,  I leave  off  for  the  time,  and  put  my  paper  in  its  hiding- 
place.  * * * * 

“The  carriage  left  the  streets  behind,  passed  the  North  Barrier,  and  emerged 
upon  the  country  road.  At  two-thirds  of  a league  from  the  Barrier — I did  not 
estimate  the  distance  at  that  time,  but  afterwards  when  I traversed  it — it  struck 
out  of  the  main  avenue,  and  presently  stopped  at  a solitary  house.  We  all  three 
alighted,  and  walked,  by  a damp  soft  footpath  in  a garden  where  a neglected 
fountain  had  overflowed,  to  the  door  of  the  house.  It  was  not  opened  imme- 
diately, in  answer  to  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  one  of  my  two  conductors  struck 
the  man  who  opened  it,  with  his  heavy  riding-glove,  across  the  face. 

“ There  was  nothing  in  this  action  to  attract  my  particular  attention,  for  I had 
seen  common  people  struck  more  commonly  than  dogs.  But,  the  otheV  of  the 
two,  being  angry  likewise,  struck  the  man  in  like  manner  with  his  arm  ; the  look 
and  bearing  of  the  brothers  weie  then  so  exactly  alike,  that  I then  first  perceived 
them  to  be  twin  brothers. 

“ From  the  time  of  our  alighting  at  the  outer  gate  (which  we  found  locked, 
and  which  one  of  the  brothers  had  opened  to  admit  us,  and  had  re-locked),  I had 
heard  cries  proceeding  from  an  upper  chamber.  I was  conducted  to  this  chamber 
straight,  the  cries  growing  louder  as  we  ascended  the  stairs,  and  I found  a patient 
in  a high  fever  of  the  brain,  lying  on  a bed. 

“ The  patient  was  a woman  of  great  beauty,  and  young  ; assuredly  not  much 
past  twenty.  Her  hair  was  torn  and  ragged,  and  her  arms  were  bound  to  her 
sides  with  sashes  and  handkerchiefs.  I notiped  that  these  bonds  were  all  portions 
of  a gentleman’s  dress.  On  one  of  them,  which  was  a fringed  scarf  for  a dress 
of  ceremony,  I saw  the  armorial  bearings  of  a Noble,  and  the  letter  E. 

“ I saw  this,  within  the  first  minute  of  my  contemplation  of  the  patient ; for, 
in  her  restless  strivings  she  had  turned  over  on  her  face  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
had  drawn  the  end  of  the  scarf  into  her  mouth,  and  was  in  danger  of  suffocation. 
My  first  act  was  to  put  out  my  hand  to  relieve  her  breathing  ; and  in  moving  the 
scarf  aside,  the  embroidery  in  the  corner  caught  my  sight. 

“ I turned  her  gently  over,  placed  my  hands  upon  her  breast  to  calm  her  and 
keep  her  down,  and  looked  into  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild,  and 
she  constantly  uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  repeated  the  words,  ‘My  husband, 
my  father,  and  my  brother  l ’ and  then  counted  up  to  twelve,  and  said,  ‘ Hush  ! * 
For  an  instant,  and  no  more,  she  would  pause  to  listen,  and  then  the  piercing 
shrieks  would  begin  again,  and  she  would  repeat  the  cry,  * My  husband,  my  father, 
and  my  brother  ! ’ and  would  count  up  to  twelve,  and  say  ‘ Hush  ! ’ There  was 
no  variation  in  the  order,  or  the  manner.  There  was  no  cessation,  but  the  regular 
moment’s  pause,  in  the  utterance  of  these  sounds. 

“ ‘ How  long,’  I asked,  ‘ has  this  lasted  ? * 

“ To  distinguish  the  brothers,  I will  call  them  the  elder  and  the  younger ; by 
the  elder,  I mean  him  who  exercised  the  most  authority.  It  was  the  elder  who 
replied,  ‘ Since  about  this  hour  last  night.’ 

“ ‘ She  has  a husband,  a father,  and  a brother  ? * 


1 88 


A *1 'ale  of  Two  Cities. 


44  ‘ A brother.’ 

44  4T  do  not  address  her  brother  ? * 

44  He  answered  with  great  contempt,  4 No.’ 

44 4 She  has  some  recent  association  with  the  number  twelve  ?T 

44  The  younger  brother  impatiently  rejoined,  4 With  twelve  o’clock  ?f 

44  4 See  gentlemen,’  said  I,  still  keeping  my  hands  upon  her  breast,  ‘how  use* 
less  I am,  as  you  have  brought  me  ! If  I had  known  what  I was  coming  to  see, 
I could  have  come  provided.  As  it  is,  time  must  be  lost.  There  are  no  medicines 
V>  be  obtained  in  this  lonely  place.’ 

“The  elder  brother  looked  to  the  younger,  who  said  haughtily,  4 There  if 
a case  of  medicines  here  ; ’ and  brought  it  from  a closet,  and  put  it  on  the 
table.  * * * * 

44 1 opened  some  of  the  bottles,  smelt  them,  and  put  the  stoppers  to  my  lips. 
If  I had  wanted  to  use  anything  save  narcotic  medicines  that  were  poisons  in 
themselves,  I would  not  have  administered  any  of  those. 

4 4 4 Do  you  doubt  them  ? ’ asked  the  younger  brother. 

4 4 4 You  see,  monsieur,  I am  going  to  use  them,’  I replied,  and  said  no  more. 

44 1 made  the  patient  swallow,  with  great  difficulty,  and  after  many  efforts,  the 
dose  that  I desired  to  give.  As  I intended  to  repeat  it  after  a while,  and  as  it 
was  necessary  to  watch  its  influence,  I then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
There  was  a timid  and  suppressed  woman  in  attendance  (wife  of  the  man  down 
stairs),  who  had  retreated  into  a corner.  The  house  was  damp  and  decayed,  in- 
differently furnished — evidently,  recently  occupied  and  temporarily  used.  Some 
thick  old  hangings  had  been  nailed  up  before  the  windows,  to  deaden  the 
sound  of  the  shrieks.  They  continued  to  be  uttered  in  their  regular  succes- 
sion, with  the  cry,  4 My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother!  ’ the  counting  up 
to  twelve,  and  4 Hush  ! ’ The  frenzy  was  so  violent,  that  I had  not  unfastened 
the  bandages  restraining  the  arms ; but,  I had  looked  to  them,  to  see  that  they 
were  not  painful.  The  only  spark  of  encouragement  in  the  case,  was,  that  my 
hand  upon  the  sufferer’s  breast  had  this  much  soothing  influence,  that  for  minutes 
at  a time  it  tranquillised  the  figure.  It  had  no  effect  upon  the  cries  ; no  pendulum 
could  be  more  regular. 

44  For  the  reason  that  my  hand  had  this  effect  (I  assume),  I had  sat  by  the  side 
of  the  bed  for  half  an  hour,  with  the  two  brothers  looking  on,  before  the  elder 
said : 

44  ‘There  is  another  patient.’ 

“ I was  startled,  and  asked,  4 Is  it  a pressing  case  ? ’ 

44  4 You  had  better  see,’  he  carelessly  answered  ; and  took  up  a light.  * * * * 

44  The  other  patient  lay  in  a back  room  across  a second  staircase,  which  was  a 
species  of  loft  over  a stable.  There  was  a low  plastered  ceiling  to  a part  of  it ; 
the  rest  was  open,  to  the  ridge  of  the  tiled  roof,  and  there  were  beams  across. 
Hay  and  straw  were  stored  in  that  portion  of  the  place,  fagots  for  firing,  and  a 
heap  of  apples  in  sand.  I had  to  pass  through  that  part,  to  get  at  the  other.  My 
memory  is  circumstantial  and  unshaken.  I try  it  with  these  details,  and  I see 
them  all,  in  this  my  cell  in  the  Bastille,  near  the  close  of  the  tenth  year  of  my 
captivity,  as  I saw  them  all  that  night. 

44  On  some  hay  on  the  ground,  with  a cushion  thrown  under  his  head,  lay  a 
handsome  peasant  boy — a boy  of  not  more  than  seventeen  at  the  most.  He  lay 
on  his  back,  with  his  teeth  set,  his  right  hand  clenched  on  his  breast,  and  his 
glaring  eyes  looking  straight  upward.  I could  not  see  where  his  wound  was,  as  I 
kneeled  on  one  knee  over  him  ; but,  I could  see  that  he  was  dying  of  a wound 
from  a sharp  point. 

"‘lama  doctor,  my  poor  fellow,’  said  I.  4 Let  me  examine  it.’ 


The  Dying  Peasant-boy . 


189 


“ *1  do  not  want  it  examined,’  he  answered  ; ‘ let  it  bed 

“It  was  under  his  hand,  and  I soothed  him  to  let  me  move  his  hand  away, 
the  wound  was  a sword-thrust,  received  from  twenty  to  twenty-four  hours  before, 
but  no  skill  could  have  saved  him  if  it  had  been  looked  to  without  delay.  He 
was  then  dying  fast.  As  I turned  my  eyes  to  the  elder  brother,  I saw  him  looking 
down  at  this  handsome  boy  whose  life  was  ebbing  out,  as  if  he  were  a wounded 
bird,  or  hare,  or  rabbit ; not  at  all  as  if  he  were  a fellow-creature. 

“ * How  has  this  been  done,  monsieur  ? ’ said  I. 

“ 4 A crazed  young  common  dog ! A serf!  Forced  my  brother  to  draw  upon 
him,  and  has  fallen  by  my  brother’s  sword — like  a gentleman.’ 

“ There  was  no  touch  of  pity,  sorrow,  or  kindred  humanity,  in  this  answer. 
The  speaker  seemed  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  that  different 
order  of  creature  dying  there,  and  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  died  in 
the  usual  obscure  routine  of  his  vermin  kind.  He  was  quite  incapable  of  any 
compassionate  feeling  about  the  boy,  or  about  his  fate. 

“ The  boy’s  eyes  had  slowly  moved  to  him  as  he  had  spoken,  and  they  now 
slowly  moved  to  me. 

“ ‘ Doctor,  they  are  very  proud,  these  Nobles  ; but  we  common  dogs  are  proud 
too,  sometimes.  They  plunder  us,  outrage  us,  beat  us,  kill  us  ; but  we  have  a 
little  pride  left,  sometimes.  She have  you  seen  her,  Doctor  ? ’ 

“The  shrieks  and  the  cries  were  audible  there,  though  subdued  by  the  distance. 
He  referred  to  them,  as  if  she  were  lying  in  our  presence. 

“ I said,  ‘ I have  seen  her.’ 

“ ‘ She  is  my  sister,  Doctor.  They  have  had  their  shameful  rights,  these 
Nobles,  in  the  modesty  and  virtue  of  our  sisters,  many  years,  but  we  have  had 
good  girls  among  us.  I know  it,  and  have  heard  my  father  say  so.  She 
was  a good  girl.  She  was  betrothed  to  a good  young  man,  too  : a tenant  of  his. 
We  were  all  tenants  of  his — that  man’s  who  stands  there.  The  other  is  his 
brother,  the  worst  of  a bad  race.’ 

“It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  boy  gathered  bodily  force  to  speak; 
but,  his  spirit  spoke  with  a dreadful  emphasis. 

“ ‘We  were  so  robbed  by  that  man  who  stands  there,  as  all  we  common  dogs 
are  by  those  superior  Beings — taxed  by  him  without  mercy,  obliged  to  work  for  him 
without  pay,  obliged  to  -grind  our  corn  at  his  mill,  obliged  to  feed  scores  of  his 
tame  birds  on  our  wretched  crops,  and  forbidden  for  our  lives  to  keep  a single 
tame  bird  of  our  own,  pillaged  and  plundered  to  that  degree  that  when  we 
chanced  to  have  a bit  of  meat,  we  ate  it  in  fear,  with  the  door  barred  and  the 
shutters  closed,  that  his  people  should  not  see  it  and  take  it  from  us — I say,  we 
were  so  robbed,  and  hunted,  and  were  made  so  poor,  that  our  father  told  us  it 
■was  a dreadful  thing  to  bring  a child  into  the  world,  and  that  what  we  should 
most  pray  for,  was,  that  our  women  might  be  barren  and  our  miserable  race  die 
out ! ’ 

“ I had  never  before  seen  the  sense  of  being  oppressed,  bursting  forth  like  a fire. 
I had  supposed  that  it  must  be  latent  in  the  people  somewhere ; but,  I had  never 
seen  it  break  out,  until  I saw  it  in  the  dying  boy. 

“ ‘ Nevertheless,  Doctor,  my  sister  married.  He  was  ailing  at  that  time,  pool 
fellow,  and  she  married  her  lover,  that  she  might  tend  and  comfort  him  in  our 
cottage — our  dog-hut,  as  that  man  would  call  it.  She  had  not  been  married 
many  weeks,  when  that  man’s  brother  saw  her  and  admired  her,  and  asked  that 
man  to  lend  her  to  him — for  what  are  husbands  among  us  ! He  was  willing 
enough,  but  my  sister  was  good  and  virtuous,  and  hated  his  brother  with  a hatred 
as  strong  as  mine.  What  did  the  two  then,  to  persuade  her  husband  to  use  his 
infi . lence  with  her,  to  make  her  willing  ? * 


190 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


“ The  boy’s  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  mine,  slowly  turned  to  the  looker. 
Dn,  and  I saw  in  the  two  faces  that  all  he  said  was  true.  The  two  opposing  kinds 
of  pride  confronting  one  another,  I can  see,  even  in  this  Bastille  ; the  gentleman’s, 
all  negligent  indifference;  the  peasant’s,  all  trodden-down  sentiment,  and  pas- 
sionate revenge. 

“ 4 You  know,  Doctor,  that  it  is  among  the  Rights  of  these  Nobles  to  harness 
us  common  dogs  to  carts,  and  drive  us.  They  so  harnessed  him  and  drove  him. 
You  know  that  it  is  among  their  Rights  to  keep  us  in  their  grounds  all  night, 
quieting  the  frogs,  in  order  that  their  noble  sleep  may  not  be  disturbed.  They 
kept  him  out  in  the  unwholesome  mists  at  night,  and  ordered  him  back  into  his 
harness  in  the  day.  But  he  was  not  persuaded.  No!  Taken  out  of  harness  one 
day  at  noon,  to  feed— if  he  could  find  food — he  sobbed  twelve  times,  once  for 
every  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  died  on  her  bosom.’ 

“ Nothing  human  could  have  held  life  in  the  boy  but  his  determination  to  tell 
all  his  wrong.  He  forced  back  the  gathering  shadows  of  death,  as  he  forced  his 
clenched  right  hand  to  remain  clenched,  and  to  cover  his  wound. 

“ ‘Then,  with  that  man’s  permission  and  even  with  his  aid,  his  brother  took 
her  away ; in  spite  of  what  I know  she  must  have  told  his  brother — and  what  that 
is,  will  not  be  long  unknown  to  you,  Doctor,  if  it  is  now — his  brother  took  her 
away — for  his  pleasure  and  diversion,  for  a little  while.  I saw  her  pass  me  on  the 
road.  When  I took  the  tidings  home,  our  father’s  heart  burst ; he  never  spoke 
one  of  the  words  that  filled  it.  I took  my  young  sister  (for  I have  another)  to  a 
place  beyond  the  reach  of  this  man,  and  where,  at  least,  she  will  never  be  his 
vassal.  Then,  I tracked  the  brother  here,  and  last  night  climbed  in — a common 
dog,  but  sword  in  hand. — Where  is  the  loft  window  ? It  was  somewhere  here  ?’ 

“ The  room  was  darkening  to  his  sight ; the  world  was  narrowing  around  him. 
I glanced  about  me,  and  saw  that  the  hay  and  straw  were  trampled  over  the  floor 
as  if  there  had  been  a struggle. 

44  ‘ She  heard  me,  and  ran  in.  I told  her  not  to  come  near  us  till  he  was  dead. 
He  came  in  and  first  tossed  me  some  pieces  of  money  ; then  struck  at  me  with  a 
whip.  But  I,  though  a common  dog,  so  struck  at  him  as  to  make  him  draw. 
Let  him  break  into  as  many  pieces  as  he  will,  the  sword  that  he  stained  with  my 
common  blood  ; he  drew  to  defend  himself-— thrust  at  me  with  all  his  skill  for  his 
life.’ 

“ My  glance  had  fallen,  but  a few  moments  before,  on  the  fragments  of  a broken 
sword,  lying  among  the  hay.  That  weapon  was  a gentleman’s.  In  another 
place,  lay  an  old  sword  that  seemed  to  have  been  a soldier’s. 

44  ‘ Now,  lift  me  up,  Doctor  ; lift  me  up.  Where  is  he  ? ’ 

“ ‘He  is  not  here,’  I said,  supporting  the  boy,  and  thinking  that  he  referred  to 
the  brother. 

“ ‘ He ! Proud  as  these  nobles  are,  he  is  afraid  to  see  me.  Where  is  the  man 
who  was  here  ? Turn  my  face  to  him.’ 

“ I did  so,  raising  the  boy’s  head  against  my  knee.  But,  invested  for  the 
moment  with  extraordinary  power,  he  raised  himself  completely  : obliging  me  to 
rise  too,  or  I could  not  have  still  supported  him. 

“ ‘Marquis,’  said  the  boy,  turned  to  him  with  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  his 
right  hand  raised,  ‘ in  the  days  when  all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  1 
summon  you  and  yours,  to  the  last  of  your  bad  race,  to  answer  for  them.  I mark 
this  cross  of  blood  upon  you,  as  a sign  that  I do  it.  In  the  days  when  all  these 
things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I summon  your  brother,  the  worst  of  the  bad  race, 
to  answer  for  them  separately.  I mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  him,  as  a sign 
that  I do  it.’ 

44  Twice,  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast,  and  with  his  foretinge* 


The  Dying  Peasant-girL  191 

drew  a cross  in  the  air.  He  stood  for  an  instant  with  the  finger  yet  raised,  and, 
as  it  dropped,  he  dropped  with  it,  and  I laid  him  down  dead.  * * * * 

“When  I returned  to  the  bedside  of  the  young  woman,  I found  her  raving  in 
precisely  the  same  order  and  continuity.  I knew  that  this  might  last  for  many 
hours,  and  that  it  would  probably  end  in  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

“ I repeated  the  medicines  I had  given  her,  and  I sat  at  the  side  of  the  bed  until 
the  night  was  far  advanced.  She  never  abated  the  piercing  quality  of  her  shrieks, 
never  stumbled  in  the  distinctness  or  the  order  of  her  words.  They  were  always 
r ‘ My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother  ! One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Hush  ! ’ 

“ This  lasted  twenty-six  hours  from  the  time  when  I first  saw  her.  I had  come 
and  gone  twice,  and  was  again  sitting  by  her,  when  she  began  to  falter.  I did 
what  little  could  be  done  to  assist  that  opportunity,  and  by-and-by  she  sank  into  a 
lethargy,  and  lay  like  the  dead. 

“ It  was  as  if  the  wind  and  rain  had  lulled  at  last,  after  a long  and  fearful 
storm.  I released  her  arms,  and  called  the  woman  to  assist  me  to  compose  her 
figure  and  the  dress  she  had  torn.  It  was  then  that  I knew  her  condition  to  be 
.that  of  one  in  whom  the  first  expectations  of  being  a mother  have  arisen ; and  it 
was  then  that  I lost  the  little  hope  I had  had  of  her. 

“ ‘Is  she  dead  ?’  asked  the  Marquis,  whom  I will  still  describe  as  the  elder 
brother,  coming  booted  into  the  room  from  his  horse. 

“ ‘Not  dead/  said  I ; ‘ but  like  to  die/ 

“ ‘What  strength  there  is  in  these  common  bodies  !’  he  said,  looking  down  at 
her  with  some  curiosity. 

“ ‘There  is  prodigious  strength/  I answered  him,  ‘ in  sorrow  and  despair/ 

“ He  first  laughed  at  my  words,  and  then  frowned  at  them.  He  moved  a chan 
with  his  foot  near  to  mine,  ordered  the  woman  away,  and  said  in  a subdued 
voice, 

“ ‘ Doctor,  finding  my  brother  in  this  difficulty  with  these  hinds,  I recommended 
that  your  aid  should  be  invited.  Your  reputation  is  high,  and,  as  a young  man 
with  your  fortune  to  make,  you  are  probably  mindful  of  your  interest.  The  things 
that  you  see  here,  are  things  to  be  seen,  and  not  spoken  of/ 

“ I listened  to  the  patient’s  breathing,  and  avoided  answering. 

“ ‘ Do  you  honour  me  with  your  attention,  Doctor  ? ’ 

“‘Monsieur,’  said  I,  ‘in  my  profession,  the  communications  of  patients  are 
always  received  in  confidence.’  I was  guarded  in  my  answer,  for  I was  troubled 
in  my  mind  with  what  I had  heard  and  seen. 

“ Her  breathing  was  so  difficult  to  trace,  that  I carefully  tried  the  pulse  and  the 
heart.  There  was  life,  and  no  more.  Looking  round  as  I resumed  my  seat,  I 
found  both  the  brothers  intent  upon  me.  * * * * 

“ I write  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  cold  is  so  severe,  I am  so  fearful  of  being 
detected  and  consigned  to  an  underground  cell  and  total  darkness,  that  I must 
abridge  this  narrative.  There  is  no  confusion  or  failure  in  my  memory  ; it  can 
recall,  and  could  detail,  every  word  that  was  ever  spoken  between  me  and  those 
brothers. 

“ She  lingered  for  a week.  Towards  the  last,  I could  understand  some  few 
syllables  that  she  said  to  me,  by  placing  my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She  asked  me 
where  she  was,  and  I told  her  ; who  I was,  and  I told  her.  It  was  in  vain  that  I 
asked  her  for  her  family  name.  She  faintly  shook  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and 
kept  her  secret,  as  the  boy  had  done. 

“ I had  no  opportunity  of  asking  her  any  question,  until  I had  told  the  brothers 
she  was  sinking  fast,  and  could  not  live  another  day.  Until  then,  though  no  one 
was  ever  piesented  to  her  consciousness  save  the  woman  and  myself,  one  or  other 


A Tale  of  Two  C it  ter. 


192 

of  them  had  always  jealously  sat  behind  the  curtain  at  the  head  of  the  bed  when 
I was  there.  But  when  it  came  to  that,  they  seemed  careless  what  communica- 
tion  I might  hold  with  her ; as  if — the  thought  passed  through  my  mind — I were 
dying  too. 

44  I always  observed  that  their  pride  bitterly  resented  the  younger  brother’s  (as  I 
call  him)  having  crossed  swords  with  a peasant,  and  that  peasant  a boy.  The 
only  consideration  that  appeared  to  affect  the  mind  of  either  of  them  was  the  con- 
sideration that  this  was  highly  degrading  to  the  family,  and  was  ridiculous.  As 
often  as  I caught  the  younger  brother’s  eyes,  their  expression  reminded  me  that 
he  disliked  me  deeply,  for  knowing  what  I knew  from  the  boy.  He  was  smoother 
and  more  polite  to  me  than  the  elder  ; but  I saw  this.  I also  saw  that  I was  an 
incumbrance  in  the  mind  of  the  elder,  too. 

“ My  patient  died,  two  hours  before  midnight — at  a time,  by  my  watch,  answer- 
ing almost  to  the  minute  when  I had  first  seen  her.  I was  alone  with  her,  when 
her  forlorn  young  head  drooped  gently  on  one  side,  and  all  her  earthly  wrongs  and 
Borrows  ended. 

“The  brothers  were  waiting  in  a room  down-stairs,  impatient  to  ride  away.  I 
had  heard  them,  alone  at  the  bedside,  striking  their  boots  with  their  riding- whips, 
and  loitering  up  and  down. 

“ 4 At  last  she  is  dead  ? ’ said  the  elder,  when  I went  in. 

44  4 She  is  dead,’  said  I. 

44  ‘I  congratulate  you,  my  brother,’  were  his  words  as  he  turned  round. 

44  He  had  before  offered  me  money,  which  I had  postponed  taking.  He  now 
gave  me  a rouleau  of  gold.  I took  it  from  his  hand,  but  laid  it  on  the  table.  I 
had  considered  the  question,  and  had  resolved  to  accept  nothing. 

44  4 Pray  excuse  me,’  said  I.  4 Under  the  circumstances,  no.’ 

44  They  exchanged  looks,  but  bent  their  heads  to  me  as  I bent  mine  to  them, 
and  we  parted  without  another  word  on  either  side.  * * * * 

44  I am  weary,  weary,  weary — worn  down  by  misery.  I cannot  read  what  I have 
written  with  this  gaunt  hand. 

44  Early  in  the  morning,  the  rouleau  of  gold  was  left  at  my  door  in  a little 
box,  with  my  name  on  the  outside.  From  the  first,  I had  anxiously  considered 
what  I ought  to  do.  I decided,  that  day,  to  write  privately  to  the  Minister, 
stating  the  nature  of  the  two  cases  to  which  I had  been  summoned,  and  the 
place  to  which  I had  gone  : in  effect,  stating  all  the  circumstances.  I knew  what 
Court  influence  was,  and  what  the  immunities  of  the  Nobles  were,  and  I expected 
that  the  matter  would  never  be  heard  of;  but,  I wished  to  relieve  my  own  mind. 
I had  kept  the  matter  a profound  secret,  even  from  my  wife  ; and  this,  too,  I 
resolved  to  state  in  my  letter.  I had  no  apprehension  whatever  of  my  real  danger  ; 
but  I was  conscious  that  there  might  be  danger  for  others,  if  others  were  com- 
promised by  possessing  the  knowledge  that  I possessed. 

44 1 was  much  engaged  that  day,  and  could  not  complete  my  letter  that  night. 
I rose  long  before  my  usual  time  next  morning  to  finish  it.  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  year.  The  letter  was  lying  before  me  just  completed,  when  I was  told  that  a 
lady  waited,  who  wished  to  see  me.  * * * • 

44 1 am  growing  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  task  I have  set  myself.  It  is  so 
cold,  so  dark,  my  senses  are  so  benumbed,  and  the  gloom  upon  me  is  so  dreadful. 

44  The  lady  was  young,  engaging,  and  handsome,  but  not  marked  for  long  life. 
She  was  in  great  agitation.  She  presented  herself  to  me  as  the  wife  of  the 
Marquis  St.  Evremonde.  I connected  the  title  by  which  the  boy  had  addressed 
the  elder  brother,  with  the  initial  letter  embroidered  on  the  scarf,  and  had  no 
difficulty  in  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  I had  seen  that  nobleman  very  lately. 

iC  My  memory  is  still  accurate,  but  I cannot  write  the  words  of  our  conversa* 


Nobility  of  the  Noble  brother . 


!93 


lion.  I suspect  that  I am  watched  more  closely  than  I was,  and  I know  not  at 
what  times  1 may  be  watched.  She  had  in  part  suspected,  and  in  part  discovered^ 
the  main  facts  of  the  cruel  story,  of  her  husband’s  share  in  it,  and  my  being 
resorted  to.  She  did  not  know  that  the  girl  was  dead.  Her  hope  had  been,  she 
said  in  great  distress,  to  show  her,  in  secret,  a woman’s  sympathy.  Her  hope  had 
been  to  avert  the  wrath  of  Heaven  from  a House  that  had  long  been  hateful  to  the 
suffering  many. 

“ She  had  reasons  for  believing  that  there  was  a young  sister  living,  and  her 
greatest  desire  was,  to  heip  that  sister.  I could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  there 
was  such  a sister  ; beyond  that,  I knew  nothing.  Her  inducement  to  come  to  me, 
relying  on  my  confidence,  had  been  the  hope  that  I could  tell  her  the  name  and 
place  of  abode.  Whereas,  to  this  wretched  hour  I am  ignorant  of  both.  * * * 

“These  scraps  of  paper  fail  me.  One  was  taken  from  me,  with  a warning, 
yesterday.  I must  finish  my  record  to-day. 

“ She  was  a good,  compassionate  lady,  and  not  happy  in  her  marriage.  How 
could  she  be  ! The  brother  distrusted  and  disliked  her,  and  his  influence  was  all 
opposed  to  her ; she  stood  in  dread  of  him,  and  in  dread  of  her  husband  too. 
W hen  I handed  her  down  to  the  door,  there  was  a child,  a pretty  boy  from  two  to 
three  years  old,  in  her  carriage. 

“ * For  his  sake,  Doctor,’  she  said,  pointing  to  him  in  tears,  4 1 would  do  all  I 
can  to  make  what  poor  amends  I can.  He  will  never  prosper  in  his  inheritance 
otherwise.  I have  a presentiment  that  if  no  other  innocent  atonement  is  made 
for  this,  it  will  one  day  be  required  of  him.  What  I have  left  to  call  my  own — 
it  is  little  beyond  the  worth  of  a few  jewels — I will  make  it  the  first  charge  of  his 
life  to  bestow,  with  the  compassion  and  lamenting  of  his  dead  mother,  on  this 
injured  family,  if  the  sister  can  be  discovered.’ 

“ She  kissed  the  boy,  and  said,  caressing  him,  4 It  is  for  thine  own  dear  sake. 
Thou  wilt  be  faithful,  little  Charles  ? ’ The  child  answered  her  bravely,  4 Yes  ! ’ 
I kissed  her  hand,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  went  away  caressing  him. 
I never  saw  her  more. 

44  As  she  had  mentioned  her  husband’s  name  in  the  faith  that  I knew  it,  I added 
no  mention  of  it  to  my  letter.  I sealed  my  letter,  and,  not  trusting  it  out  of  my 
own  hands,  delivered  it  myself  that  day. 

44  That  night,  the  last  night  of  the  year,  towards  nine  o’clock,  a man  in  a black 
dress  rang  at  my  gate,  demanded  to  see  me,  and  softly  followed  my  servant,  Ernest 
Defarge,  a youth,  up-stairs.  When  my  servant  came  into  the  room  where  I sat 
with  my  wife — O my  wife,  beloved  of  my  heart ! My  fair  young  English  wife  ! — 
we  saw  the  man,  who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  gate,  standing  silent  behind  him. 

44  An  urgent  case  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  he  said.  It  would  not  detain  me,  he 
had  a coach  in  waiting. 

44  It  brought  me  here,  it  brought  me  to  my  grave.  When  I was  clear  of  the 
house,  a black  muffler  was  drawn  tightly  over  my  mouth  from  behind,  and  my 
arms  were  pinioned.  The  two  brothers  crossed  the  road  from  a dark  corner,  and 
identified  me  with  a single  gesture.  The  Marquis  took  from  his  pocket  the  letter 
I had  written,  showed  it  me,  burnt  it  in  the  light  of  a lantern  that  was  held,  and 
extinguished  the  ashes  with  his  foot.  Not  a word  was  spoken.  I was  brought 
here,  I was  brought  to  my  living  grave. 

44  If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart  of  either  of  the  brothers, 
in  all  these  frightful  years,  to  grant  me  any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife — so  much 
as  to  let  me  know  by  a word  whether  alive  or  dead — I might  have  thought  that  He 
lud  not  quite  abandoned  them.  But.  now  I believe  that  the  mark  of  the  red  cross 
is  fatal  to  them,  and  that  they  have  no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them  and  their 
descendants,  to  the  last  of  their  race,  I,  Alexandre  Manette,  unhappy  prisoner,  clt 

O 


94 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


this  last  night  of  the  year  1767,  in  my  unbearable  agony,  denounce  to  the  times 
when  all  these  things  shall  be  answered  for.  I denounce  them  to  Heaven  and  to 
earth.” 

A terrible  sound  arose  when  the  reading  of  this  document  was  done.  A sound 
of  craving  and  eagerness  that  had  nothing  articulate  in  it  but  blood.  The  narra- 
tive called  up  the  most  revengeful  passions  of  the  time,  and  there  was  not  a head 
in  the  ration  but  must  have  dropped  before  it. 

Little  need,  in  presence  of  that  tribunal  and  that  auditory,  to  show  how  the 
Defarges  had  not  made  the  paper  public,  with  the  other  captured  Bastille  memo- 
rials borne  in  procession,  and  had  kept  it,  biding  their  time.  Little  need  to  show 
that  this  detested  family  name  had  long  been  anathematised  by  Saint  Antoine, 
and  was  wrought  into  the  fatal  register.  The  man  never  trod  ground  whose 
virtues  and  services  would  have  sustained  him  in  that  place  that  day,  against  such 
denunciation. 

And  all  the  worse  for  the  doomed  man,  that  the  denouncer  was  a well-known 
citizen,  his  own  attached  friend,  the  father  of  his  wife.  One  of  the  frenzied 
aspirations  of  the  populace  was,  for  imitations  of  the  questionable  public  virtues 
of  antiquity,  and  for  sacrifices  and  self-immolations  on  the  people’s  altar.  There- 
fore when  the  President  said  (else  had  his  own  head  quivered  on  his  shoulders), 
that  the  good  physician  of  the  Republic  would  deserve  better  still  of  the  Republic 
by  rooting  out  an  obnoxious  family  of  Aristocrats,  and  would  doubtless  feel  a 
sacred  glow  and  joy  in  making  his  daughter  a widow  and  her  child  an  orphan, 
there  was  wild  excitement,  patriotic  fervour,  not  a touch  of  human  sympathy. 

“ Much  influence  around  him,  has  that  Doctor  ? ’’  murmured  Madame  Defarge, 
smiling  to  The  Vengeance.  “ Save  him  now,  my  Doctor,  save  him  ! ” 

At  every  juryman’s  vote,  there  was  a roar.  Another  and  another.  Roar  and  roar. 

Unanimously  voted.  At  heart  and  by  descent  an  Aristocrat,  an  enemy  of  the 
Republic,  a notorious  oppressor  of  the  People.  Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and 
Death  within  four-and-twenty  hours  ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DUSK. 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  innocent  man  thus  doomed  to  die,  fell  under  the 
sentence,  as  if  she  had  been  mortally  stricken.  But,  she  uttered  no  sound ; and  so 
strong  was  the  voice  within  her,  representing  that  it  was  she  of  all  the  world  who 
must  uphold  him  in  his  misery  and  not  augment  it,  that  it  quickly  raised  her,  even 
from  that  shock. 

The  judges  having  to  take  part  in  a public  demonstration  out  of  doors,  the 
tribunal  adjourned.  The  quick  noise  and  movement  of  the  court’s  emptying 
itself  by  many  passages  had  not  ceased,  when  Lucie  stood  stretching  out  her  arms 
towards  her  husband,  with  nothing  in  her  face  but  love  and  consolation. 

“ If  I might  touch  him  ! If  I might  embrace  him  once  ! O,  good  citizens,  il 
you  would  have  so  much  compassion  for  us  ! ” 

There  was  but  a gaoler  left,  along  with  two  of  the  four  men  who  had  taken  him 
'ast  night,  and  Barsad.  The  people  had  all  poured  out  to  the  show  in  the  streets. 
Barsad  proposed  to  the  rest,  “ Let  her  embrace  him  then  ; it  is  but  a moment.” 
It  was  silently  acquiesced  in,  and  they  passed  her  over  the  seats  in  the  hall  to  a 
raised  plvce,  where  he,  by  leaning  over  the  dock,  could  fold  her  in  his  arms. 


Cannot  Carton  help  her  ? 19  J 

-■■■-■< — . > — ■ ■ ■■  - ■ ■■  - - - - — ■ — ■ ■ ■ 

**  Farewell,  dear  darling  of  my  soul.  My  parting  blessing  on  my  love.  We 
shall  meet  again,  where  the  weary  are  at  rest ! ” 

They  were  her  husband’s  words,  as  he  held  her  to  his  bosom. 

“ I can  bear  it,  dear  Charles.  I am  supported  from  above  : don’t  suffer  foi  me. 
A.  Darting  blessing  for  our  child.” 

" I send  it  to  her  by  you.  I kiss  her  by  you.  I say  farewell  to  her  by  you.” 

“ My  husband.  No  ! A moment !”  He  was  tearing  himself  apart  from  her. 
“ We  shall  not  be  separated  long.  I feel  that  this  will  break  my  heart  by-and-by  ; 
but  I will  do  my  duty  while  I can,  and  when  I leave  her,  God  will  raise  up  friends 
for  her,  as  He  did  for  me.” 

Her  father  had  followed  her,  and  would  have  fallen  on  his  knees  to  both  of  them, 
but  that  Darnay  put  out  a hand  and  seized  him,  crying  : 

“No,  no  ! What  have  you  done,  what  have  you  done,  that  you  should  kneel 
to  us  ! We  know  now,  what  a struggle  you  made  of  old.  We  know  now,  what 
you  underwent  when  you  suspected  my  descent,  and  when  you  knew  it.  We  know 
now,  the  natural  antipathy  you  strove  against,  and  conquered,  for  her  dear  sake. 
We  thank  you  with  all  our  hearts,  and  all  our  love  and  duty.  Heaven  be  with 
you  !” 

Her  father’s  only  answer  was  to  draw  his  hands  through  his  white  hair,  and 
wring  them  with  a shriek  of  anguish. 

“ It  could  not  be  otherwise,”  said  the  prisoner.  “ All  things  have  worked  to- 
gether as  they  have  fallen  out.  It  was  the  always-vain  endeavour  to  discharge  my 
poor  mother’s  trust  that  first  brought  my  fatal  presence  near  you.  Good  could 
never  come  of  such  evil,  a happier  end  was  not  in  nature  to  so  unhappy  a begin- 
ning. Be  comforted,  and  forgive  me.  Heaven  bless  you  !” 

As  he  was  drawn  away,  his  wife  released  him,  and  stood  looking  after  him  with 
her  hands  touching  one  another  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  with  a radiant  look 
upon  her  face,  in  which  there  was  even  a comforting  smile.  As  he  went  out  at  the 
prisoners’  door,  she  turned,  laid  her  head  lovingly  on  her  father’s  breast,  tried  to 
speak  to  him,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

Then,  issuing  from  the  obscure  corner  from  which  he  had  never  moved,  Sydney 
Carton  came  and  took  her  up.  Only  her  father  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  with  her. 
His  arm  trembled  as  it  raised  her,  and  supported  her  head.  Yet,  there  was  an  air 
about  him  that  was  not  all  of  pity — that  had  a flush  of  pride  in  it. 

“ Shall  I take  her  to  a coach  ? I shall  never  feel  her  weight.” 

He  carried  her  lightly  to  the  door,  and  laid  her  tenderly  down  in  a coach.  Her 
father  and  their  old  friend  got  into  it,  and  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  gateway  where  he  had  paused  in  the  dark  not  many 
hours  before,  to  picture  to  himself  on  which  of  the  rough  stones  of  the  street  her  teet 
had  trodden,  he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her  up  the  staircase  to  their  rooms. 
There,  he  laid  her  down  on  a couch,  where  her  child  and  Miss  Pross  wept  over  her. 

“Don’t  recall  her  to  herself,”  he  said,  softly,  to  the  latter,  “ she  is  better  so. 
Don’t  revive  her  to  consciousness,  while  she  only  faints.” 

“ Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton !”  cried  little  Lucie,  springing  up  and  throw- 
ing her  arms  passionately  round  him,  in  a burst  of  grief.  “Now  that  you  have 
come,  I think  you  will  do  something  to  help  mamma,  something  to  save  papa ! 
O,  look  at  her,  dear  Carton  ! Can  you,  of  all  the  people  who  love  her,  bear  to 
see  her  so  ?” 

He  bent  over  the  child,  and  laid  her  blooming  cheek  against  his  face.  He  put 
her  gently  from  him,  and  looked  at  her  unconscious  mother. 

“ Before  I go,”  he  said,  and  paused — “ I may  kiss  her  ?” 

It  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  bent  down  and  touched  her  face 
tfith  his  lips,  he  murmured  some  words.  The  child?  who  was  nearest  te  him,  told 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


196 

them  afterwards,  and  told  her  grandchildren  when  she  was  a handsome  old  lady, 
that  she  heard  him  say,  “ A life  you  love.” 

When  he  had  gone  out  into  the  next  room,  he  turned  suddenly  on  Mr.  Lorry 
and  her  father,  who  were  following,  and  said  to  the  latter  : 

“ You  had  great  influence  but  yesterday,  Doctor  Manette  ; let  it  at  least  be 
tried.  These  judges,  and  all  the  men  in  power,  are  very  friendly  to  you,  and  very 
recognisant  of  your  services  ; are  they  not  ?” 

“ Nothing  connected  with  Charles  was  concealed  from  me.  I ‘had  the  strongest 
assurances  that  I should  save  him ; and  I did.”  He  returned  the  answer  in  great 
trouble,  and  very  slowly. 

“ Try  them  again.  The  hours  between  this  and  to-morrow  afternoon  are  few 
and  short,  but  try.” 

“ I intend  to  try.  I will  not  rest  a moment.” 

“ That’s  well.  I have  known  such  energy  as  yours  do  great  things  before  now 
— though  never,”  he  added,  with  a smile  and  a sigh  together,  “such  great  things 
as  this.  But  try ! Oi  little  worth  as  life  is  when  we  misuse  it,  it  is  worth  that 
effort.  It  would  cost  nothing  to  lay  down  if  it  were  not.” 

“ I will  go,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  “ to  the  Prosecutor  and  the  President  straight, 

and  I will  go  to  others  whom  it  is  better  not  to  name.  I will  write  too,  and 

But  stay ! There  is  a celebration  in  the  streets,  and  no  one  will  be  accessible 
until  dark.” 

“That’s  true.  Well ! It  is  a forlorn  hope  at  the  best,  and  not  much  the  for- 
lomer  for  being  delayed  till  dark.  I should  like  to  know  how  you  speed  ; though, 
mind  ! I expect  nothing ! When  are  you  likely  to  have  seen  these  dread  powers. 
Doctor  Manette  ?” 

“ Immediately  after  dark,  I should  hope.  Within  an  hour  or  two  from  this.” 

“ It  will  be  dark  soon  after  four.  Let  us  stretch  the  hour  or  two.  If  I go  to 
Mr.  Lorry’s  at  nine,  shall  I hear  what  you  have  done,  either  from  our  friend  or 
from  yourself?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ May  you  prosper !” 

Mr.  Lorry  followed  Sydney  to  the  outer  door,  and,  touching  him  on  the  shouldei 
as  he  was  going  away,  caused  him  to  turn. 

“I  have  no  hope,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a low  and  sorrowful  whisper. 

“ Nor  have  I.” 

“ If  any  one  of  these  men,  or  all  of  these  men,  were  disposed  to  spare  him — 
which  is  a large  supposition  ; for  what  is  his  life,  or  any  man’s  to  them  ! — I doubt 
if  they  durst  spare  him  after  the  demonstration  in  the  court.” 

“ And  so  do  I.  I heard  the  fall  of  the  axe  in  that  sound.” 

Mr.  Lorry  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  door-post,  and  bowed  his  face  upon  it. 
“Don’t  despond,”  said  Carton,  very  gently;  “ don’t  grieve.  I encouraged 
Doctor  Manette  in  this  idea,  because  I felt  that  it  might  one  day  be  consolatory  to 
her.  Otherwise,  she  might  think  ‘ his  life  was  wantonly  thrown  away  or  wasted/ 
and  that  might  trouble  her.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  yes,”  returned  Mr.  Lorry,  diying  his  eyes,  “ you  are  right.  But  he 
will  perish  ; there  is  no  real  hope.” 

“ Yes.  He  will  perish  : there  is  no  real  hope,”  echoed  Carton.  And  walked 
with  a settled  step,  down-stairs. 


Sydney  Carton  will  try  to  help  her . 


*97 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DARKNESS. 

Sydney  Carton  paused  in  the  street,  not  quite  decided  where  to  go.  “At 
Tellson’s  banking-house  at  nine,”  he  said,  with  a musing  face.  “ Shall  I do  well, 
in  the  mean  time,  to  show  myself  ? I think  so.  It  is  best  that  these  people  should 
know  there  is  such  a man  as  I here ; it  is  a sound  precaution,  and  may  be  a 
necessary  preparation.  But  care,  care,  care  ! Let  me  think  it  out !” 

Checking  his  steps  which  had  begun  to  tend  towards  an  object,  he  took  a turn 
or  two  in  the  already  darkening  street,  and  traced  the  thought  in  his  mind  to  its 
possible  consequences.  His  first  impression  was  confirmed.  “ It  is  best,”  he  said, 
finally  resolved,  “ that  these  people  should  know  there  is  such  a man  as  I here.” 
And  he  turned  his  face  towards  Saint  Antoine. 

Defarge  had  described  himself,  that  day,  as  the  keeper  of  a wine-shop  in  the 
Saint  Antoine  suburb.  It  was  not  difficult  for  one  who  knew  the  city  well,  to  find 
his  house  without  asking  any  question.  Having  ascertained  its  situation,  Carton 
came  out  of  those  closer  streets  again,  and  dined  at  a place  of  refreshment  and 
fell  sound  asleep  after  dinner.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  he  had  no  strong 
drink.  Since  last  night  he  had  taken  nothing  but  a little  light  thin  wine,  and  last 
night  he  had  dropped  the  brandy  slowly  down  on  Mr.  Lorry’s  hearth  like  a man 
who  had  done  with  it. 

It  was  as  late  as  seven  o’clock  when  he  awoke  refreshed,  and  went  out  into  the 
streets  again.  As  he  passed  along  towards  Saint  Antoine,  he  stopped  at  a shop- 
window  where  there  was  a mirror,  and  slightly  altered  the  disordered  arrangement 
of  his  loose  cravat,  and  his  coat-collar,  and  his  wild  hair.  This  done,  he  went  on 
direct  to  Defarge’s,  and  went  in. 

There  happened  to  be  no  customer  in  the  shop  but  Jacques  Three,  of  the  rest- 
less fingers  and  the  croaking  voice.  This  man,  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  Jury, 
stood  drinking  at  the  little  counter,  in  conversation  with  the  Defarges,  man  and 
wife.  The  Vengeance  assisted  in  the  conversation,  like  a regular  member  of  the 
establishment. 

As  Carton  walked  in,  took  his  seat  and  asked  (in  very  indifferent  French)  for  a 
small  measure  of  wine,  Madame  Defarge  cast  a careless  glance  at  him,  and  then  a 
keener,  and  then  a keener,  and  then  advanced  to  him  herself,  and  asked  him  what 
it  was  he  had  ordered. 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said. 

‘‘English?”  asked  Madame  Defarge,  inquisitively  raising  her  dark  eye- 
brows. 

After  looking  at  her,  as  if  the  sound  of  even  a single  French  word  were  slow  to 
express  itself  to  him,  he  answered,  in  his  former  strong  foreign  accent.  “Yes, 
madame,  yes.  I am  English  !” 

Madame  Defarge  returned  to  her  counter  to  get  the  wine,  and,  as  he  took  up  a 
Jacobin  journal  and  feigned  to  pore  over  it  puzzling  out  its  meaning,  he  heard 
her  say,  “ I swear  to  you,  like  Evremonde !” 

Defarge  brought  him  the  wine,  and  gave  him  Good  Evening. 

“ How  ?” 

“ Good  evening.”  • 

“ Oh  ! Good  evening,  citizen,”  filling  his  glass.  “ Ah  ! and  good  wine.  I 
drink  to  the  Republic.” 

Defarge  went  back  to  the  counter,  and  said,  “ Certainly,  a little  like.”  Madam* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


198 

Sternly  retorted,  “ I tell  you  a good  deal  like.”  Jacques  Three  pacifically  remarked, 
“ He  is  so  much  in  your  mind,  see  you,  madame.”  The  amiable  Vengeance 
added,  with  a laugh,  “Yes,  my  faith ! And  you  are  looking  forward  with  so  much 
pleasure  to  seeing  him  once  more  to-morrow  !” 

Carton  followed  the  lines  and  words  of  his  paper,  with  a slow  forefinger,  and 
with  a studious  and  absorbed  face.  They  were  all  leaning  their  arms  on  the 
counter  close  together,  speaking  low.  After  a silence  ot  a few  moments,  during 
which  they  all  looked  towards  him  without  disturbing  his  outward  attention  from 
the  Jacobin  editor,  they  resumed  their  conversation. 

“ It  is  true  what  madame  says,”  observed  Jacques  Three.  “ Why  stop  ? There 
is  great  force  in  that.  Why  stop  ?” 

“Well,  well,”  reasoned  Defarge,  “ but  one  must  stop  somewhere.  After  all,  the 
question  is  still  where  ?” 

“ At  extermination,”  said  madame. 

“ Magnificent !”  croaked  Jacques  Three.  The  Vengeance,  also,  highly  approved. 
“ Extermination  is  good  doctrine,  my  wife,”  said  Defarge,  rather  troubled  ; “in 
general,  I say  nothing  against  it.  But  this  Doctor  has  suffered  much  ; you  have 
seen  him  to-day  ; you  have  observed  his  face  when  the  paper  was  read.” 

“ I have  observed  his  face  !”  repeated  madame,  contemptuously  and  angrily. 
“ Yes.  I have  observed  his  face.  I have  observed  his  face  to  be  not  the  face  of 
a true  friend  of  the  Republic.  Let  him  take  care  of  his  face !” 

“And  you  have  observed,  my  wife,”  said  Defarge,  in  a deprecatory  manner, 
“ the  anguish  of  his  daughter,  which  must  be  a dreadful  anguish  to  him  !” 

“ I have  observed  his  daughter,”  repeated  madame  ; “ yes,  I have  observed  his 
daughter,  more  times  than  one.  I have  observed  her  to-day,  and  I have  observed 
her  other  days.  1 have  observed  her  in  the  court,  and  I have  observed  her  in  the 

street  by  the  prison.  Let  me  but  lift  my  finger !”  She  seemed  to  raise  it  (the 

listener’s  eyes  were  always  on  his  paper),  and  to  let  it  fall  with  a rattle  on  the 
ledge  before  her,  as  if  the  axe  had  dropped. 

“The  citizeness  is  superb  !”  croaked  the  Juiyman. 

“ She  is  an  Angel !”  said  The  Vengeance,  and  embraced  her. 

“As  to  thee,”  pursued  madame,  implacably,  addressing  her  husband,  “if  it 
depended  on  thee — which,  happily,  it  does  not — thou  wouldst  rescue  this  man 
even  now.” 

“No  !”  protested  Defarge.  “Not  if  to  lift  this  glass  would  do  it ! But  I would 
leave  the  matter  there.  I say,  stop  there.” 

“See  you  then,  Jacques,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  wrathfully ; “and  see  you, 
too,  my  little  Vengeance ; see  you  both  ! Listen  ! For  other  crimes  as  tyrants 
and  oppressors,  I have  this  race  a long  time  on  my  register,  doomed  to  destruction 
and  extermination.  Ask  my  husband,  is  that  so.” 

“It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge,  without  being  asked. 

“In  the  beginning  of  the  great  days,  when  the  Bastille  falls,  he  finds  this  paper 
of  to-day,  and  he  brings  it  home,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  this 
place  is  clear  and  shut,  we  read  it,  here  on  this  spot,  by  the  light  of  this  lamp. 
Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

“It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge. 

“That  night,  I tell  him,  when  the  paper  is  read  through,  and  the  lamp  is  burnt 
out,  and  the  day  is  gleaming  in  above  those  shutters  and  between  those  iron 
bars,  that  I have  now  a secret  to  communicate.  Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

“ It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  again.  • 

“ I communicate  to  him  that  secret.  I smite  this  bosom  with  these  two  hands 
as  I smite  it  now,  and  I tell  him,  ‘ Defarge,  I was  brought  up  among  the  fisher* 
mett  of  the  sea-shore,  and  that  peasant  family  so  injured  by  the  two  Evremonde 


Again,  the  Shoemaker . 


199 

brothers,  as  that  Bastille  paper  describes,  is  my  family.  Defarge,  that  sister  o/ 
the  mortally  wounded  boy  upon  the  ground  was  my  sister,  that  husband  was  my 
sister’s  husband,  that  unborn  child  was  their  child,  that  brother  was  my  brother, 
that  father  was  my  father,  those  dead  are  my  dead,  and  that  summons  to  answer 
for  those  things  descends  to  me  ! ’ Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

“ It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  once  more. 

“Then  tell  Wind  and  Fire  where  to  stop,”  returned  madame;  “but  don’t 
tell  me.” 

Both  her  hearers  derived  a horrible  enjoyment  from  the  deadly  nature  of  her 
vrath — the  listener  could  feel  how  white  she  was,  without  seeing  her — and  both 
highly  commended  it.  Defarge,  a weak  minority,  interposed  a few  words  for  the 
memory  of  the  compassionate  wife  of  the  Marquis ; but  only  elicited  from  his 
own  wife  a repetition  of  her  last  reply.  “ Tell  the  Wind  and  the  Fire  where  to 
stop  ; not  me  ! ” 

Customers  entered,  and  the  group  was  broken  up.  The  English  customer  paid 
for  what  he  had  had,  perplexedly  counted  his  change,  and  asked,  as  a stranger, 
to  be  directed  towards  the  National  Palace.  Madame  Defarge  took  him  to  the 
door,  and  put  her  arm  on  his,  in  pointing  out  the  road.  The  English  customer 
was  not  without  his  reflections  then,  that  it  might  be  a good  deed  to  seize  that 
arm,  lift  it,  and  strike  under  it  sharp  and  deep. 

But,  he  went  his  way,  and  was  soon  swallowed  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  prison 
wall.  At  the  appointed  hour,  he  emerged  from  it  to  present  himself  in  Mr. 
Lorry’s  room  again,  where  he  found  the  old  gentleman  walking  to  and  fro  in 
restless  anxiety.  He  said  he  had  been  with  Lucie  until  just  now,  and  had  only 
left  her  for  a few  minutes,  to  come  and  keep  his  appointment.  Her  father  had 
not  been  seen,  since  he  quitted  the  banking-house  towards  four  o’clock.  She  had 
some  faint  hopes  that  his  mediation  might  save  Charles,  but  they  were  very  slight. 
He  had  been  more  than  five  hours  gone  : where  could  he  be  ? 

Mr.  Lorry  waited  until  ten  ; but,  Doctor  Manette  not  returning,  and  he  being 
unwilling  to  leave  Lucie  any  longer,  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  go  back  to 
her,  and  come  to  the  banking-house  again  at  midnight.  In  the  meanwhile. 
Carton  would  wait  alone  by  the  fire  for  the  Doctor. 

He  waited  and  waited,  and  the  clock  struck  twelve  ; but  Doctor  Manette  did 
not  come  back.  Mr.  Lorry  returned,  and  found  no  tidings  of  him,  and  brought 
none.  Where  could  he  be  ? 

They  were  discussing  this  question,  and  were  almost  building  up  some  weak 
structure  of  hope  on  his  prolonged  absence,  when  they  heard  him  on  the  stairs. 
The  instant  he  entered  the  room,  it  was  plain  that  all  was  lost. 

Whether  he  had  really  been  to  any  one,  or  whether  he  had  been  all  that  time 
traversing  the  streets,  was  never  known.  As  he  stood  staring  at  them,  they  asked 
him  no  question,  for  his  face  told  them  everything. 

“ I cannot  find  it.”  said  he,  “ and  I must  have  it.  Where  is  it  ?” 

His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  and,  as  he  spoke  with  a helpless  look  straying 
all  around,  he  took  his  coat  off,  and  let  it  drop  on  the  floor. 

“ Where  is  my  bench  ? I have  been  looking  everywhere  for  my  bench,  and 
I can’t  find  it.  What  have  they  done  with  my  work  ? Time  presses : I must 
finish  those  shoes.” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  hearts  died  within  them. 

“ Come,  come ! ” said  he,  in  a whimpering  miserable  way ; “ let  me  get  to  work. 
Give  me  my  work.” 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  tore  his  hair,  and  beat  his  feet  upon  the  ground,  like  a 
distracted  child. 

“ Don’t  torture  a poor  forlorn  wretch. * he  implored  them,  with  a dreadful  cry ; 


200  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

“ but  give  me  my  work ! What  is  to  become  of  us,  if  those  shoes  are  not  done 
to-night  ?” 

Lost,  utterly  lost ! 

It  was  so  clearly  beyond  hope  to  reason  with  him,  or  try  to  restore  him, — that — 
as  if  by  agreement — they  each  put  a hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  soothed  him  to 
sit  down  before  the  fire,  with  a promise  that  he  should  have  his  work  presently. 
He  sank  into  the  chair,  and  brooded  over  the  embers,  and  shed  tears.  As  if  all 
that  had  happened  since  the  garret  time  were  a momentary  fancy,  or  a dream, 
Mr.  Lorry  saw  him  shrink  into  the  exact  figure  that  Defarge  had  had  in  keeping. 

Affected,  and  impressed  with  terror  as  they  both  were,  by  this  spectacle  of  ruin, 
it  was  not  a time  to  yield  to  such  emotions.  His  lonely  daughter,  bereft  of  her 
final  hope  and  reliance,  appealed  to  them  both  too  strongly.  Again,  as  if  by 
agreement,  they  looked  at  one  another  with  one  meaning  in  their  faces.  Carton 
was  the  first  to  speak  : 

“ The  last  chance  is  gone  : it  was  not  much.  Yes  ; he  had  better  be  taken  to 
her.  But,  before  you  go,  will  you,  for  a moment,  steadily  attend  to  me  ? Don’t 
ask  me  why  I make  the  stipulations  I am  going  to  make,  and  exact  the  promise  I 
am  going  to  exact ; I have  a reason — a good  one.” 

“ I do  not  doubt  it,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Say  on.” 

The  figure  in  the  chair  between  them,  was  all  the  time  monotonously  rocking 
itself  to  and  fro,  and  moaning.  They  spoke  in  such  a tone  as  they  would  have 
used  if  they  had  been  watching  by  a sick-bed  in  the  night. 

Carton  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coat,  which  lay  almost  entangling  his  feet.  As 
he  did  so,  a small  case  in  which  the  Doctor  was  accustomed  to  cany  the  list  of 
his  day’s  duties,  fell  lightly  on  the  floor.  Carton  took  it  up,  and  there  was  a 
folded  paper  in  it.  “ We  should  look  at  this  !”  he  said.  Mr.  Lorry  nodded  his 
consent.  He  opened  it,  and  exclaimed,  “ Thank  God  !” 

“ What  is  it  ?”  asked  Mr.  Lorry,  eagerly. 

“ A moment ! Let  me  speak  of  it  in  its  place.  First,”  he  put  his  hand  in  his 
coat,  and  took  another  paper  from  it,  “ that  is  the  certificate  which  enables  me  to 
pass  out  of  this  city.  Look  at  it.  You  see — Sydney  Carton,  an  Englishman  ?” 
Mr.  Lorry  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  gazing  in  his  earnest  face. 

“ Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow.  I shall  see  him  to-morrow,  you  remember, 
and  I had  better  not  take  it  into  the  prison.” 

“Why  not?” 

“ I don’t  know  ; I prefer  not  to  do  so.  Now,  take  this  paper  that  Doctoi 
Manette  has  carried  about  him.  It  is  a similar  certificate,  enabling  him  and 
his  daughter  and  her  child,  at  any  time,  to  pass  the  barrier  and  the  frontier? 
You  see?” 

“Yes!” 

“ Perhaps  he  obtained  it  as  his  last  and  utmost  precaution  against  evil,  yester- 
day. When  is  it  dated  ? But  no  matter ; don’t  stay  to  look  ; put  it  up  carefully 
with  mine  and  your  own.  Now,  observe  ! I never  doubted  until  within  this  hour 
or  two,  that  he  had,  or  could  have  such  a paper.  It  is  good,  until  recalled.  But 
it  may  be  soon  recalled,  and,  I have  reason  to  think,  will  be.” 

“ They  are  not  in  danger  ?” 

“ They  are  in  great  danger.  They  are  in  danger  of  denunciation  by  Madame 
Defarge.  I know  it  from  her  own  lips.  I have  overheard  words  of  that  woman’s, 
to-night,  which  have  presented  their  danger  to  me  in  strong  colours.  I have  lost 
no  time,  and  since  then,  I have  seen  the  spy.  He  confirms  me.  He  knows  that 
a wood-sawyer,  living  by  the  prison-wall,  is  under  the  control  of  the  Defarges, 
and  has  been  rehearsed  by  Madame  Defarge  as  to  his  having  seen  Her  ” — he 
aever  mentioned  Lucie’s  name — “making  signs  and  signals  to  prisoners.  It  is 


Sydney  Carton  s last  instructions . 


aoi 


easy  to  foresee  that  the  pretence  will  be  the  common  one,  a prison  plot,  and  that 
it  will  involve  her  life — and  perhaps  her  child’s — and  perhaps  her  father’s — for 
both  have  been  seen  with  her  at  that  place.  Don’t  lock  so  horrified.  You  will 
save  them  all.” 

“ Heaven  giant  I may,  Carton  ! But  how  ?” 

“ I am  going  to  tell  you  how.  It  will  depend  on  you,  and  it  could  depend  on 
no  better  man.  This  new  denunciation  will  certainly  not  take  place  until  after 
to-morrow  ; probably  not  until  two  or  three  days  afterwards ; more  probably  a 
week  afterwards.  You  know  it  is  a capital  crime,  to  mourn  for,  or  sympathise 
with,  a victim  of  the  Guillotine.  She  and  her  father  would  unquestionably  be 
guilty  of  this  crime,  and  this  woman  (the  inveteracy  of  whose  pursuit  cannot  be 
described)  would  wait  to  add  that  strength  to  her  case,  and  make  herself  doubly 
sure.  You  follow  me  ?” 

“ So  attentively,  and  with  so  much  confidence  in  what  you  say,  that  for  the 
moment  I lose  sight,”  touching  the  back  of  the  Doctor’s  chair,  “even  of  this 
distress.” 

“You  have  money,  and  can  buy  the  means  of  travelling  to  the  sea-coast  as 
quicldy  as  the  journey  can  be  made.  Your  preparations  have  been  completed  for 
some  days,  to  return  to  England.  Early  to-morrow  have  your  horses  ready,  so 
that  they  may  be  in  starting  trim  at  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon.” 

“ It  shall  be  done  ! ” 

His  manner  was  so  fervent  and  inspiring,  that  Mr.  Lorry  caught  the  flame,  and 
was  as  quick  as  youth. 

“ You  are  a noble  heart.  Did  I say  we  could  depend  upon  no  better  man  ? 
Tell  her,  to-night,  what  you  know  of  her  danger  as  involving  her  child  and  her 
father.  Dwell  upon  that,  for  she  would  lay  her  own  fair  head  beside  her  hus- 
band’s cheerfully.”  He  faltered  for  an  instant;  then  went  on  as  before.  “For 
the  sake  of  her  child  and  her  father,  press  upon  her  the  necessity  of  leaving  Paris, 
with  them  and  you,  at  that  hour.  Tell  her  that  it  was  her  husband’s  last  arrange- 
ment. Tell  her  that  more  depends  upon  it  than  she  dare  believe,  or  hope.  You 
think  that  her  father,  even  in  this  sad  state,  will  submit  himself  to  her ; do  you 
not?” 

“ I am  sure  of  it.” 

“ I thought  so.  Quietly  and  steadily  have  all  these  arrangements  made  in  die 
court-yard  here,  even  to  the  taking  of  your  own  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  moment 
I come  to  you,  take  me  in,  and  drive  away.” 

“ I understand  that  I wait  for  you  under  all  circumstances  ?” 

“You  have  my  certificate  in  your  hand  with  the  rest,  you  know,  and  will 
reserve  my  place.  Wait  for  nothing  but  to  have  my  place  occupied,  and  then  for 
England  ! ” 

“ Why,  then,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  grasping  his  eager  but  so  firm  and  steady  hand, 
“ it  does  not  all  depend  on  one  old  man,  but  I shall  have  a young  and  ardent  man 
at  my  side.” 

“ By  the  help  of  Heaven  you  shall ! Promise  me  solemnly  that  nothing  will 
influence  you  to  alter  the  course  on  which  we  now  stand  pledged  to  one  another.” 

“ Nothing,  Carton.” 

“ Remember  these  words  to-morrow  : change  the  course,  or  delay  in  it — foi 
any  reason — and  no  life  can  possibly  be  saved,  and  many  lives  must  inevitably 
be  sacrificed.” 

“ I will  remember  them.  I hope  to  do  my  part  faithfully.” 

“ And  I hope  to  do  mine.  Now,  good-bye  ! ” 

Though  he  said  it  with  a grave  smile  of  earnestness,  and  though  he  eren  put 
the  old  man’s  hand  to  his  lips,  he  did  not  part  from  him  then  He  helped  him 


*0* 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


so  far  to  arouse  the  rocking  figure  before  the  dying  embers,  as  to  get  a cloak  and 
hat  put  upon  it,  and  to  tempt  it  forth  to  find  where  the  bepch  and  work  were 
hidden  that  it  still  moaningly  besought  to  have.  He  walked  ou  the  other  side  of 
it  and  protected  it  to  the  court-yard  of  the  house  where  the  afflicted  heart — so 
happy  in  the  memorable  time  when  he  had  revealed  his  own  desolate  heart  to  it — • 
outwatched  the  awful  night.  He  entered  the  court -yard  and  remained  there  for  a 
few  moments  alone,  looking  up  at  the  light  in  the  window  of  her  room.  Before 
he  went  away,  he  breathed  a blessing  towards  it,  and  a Farewell. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FIFTY-TWO. 

In  the  black  prison  of  the  Conciergerie,  the  doomed  of  the  day  awaited  their  fate. 
They  were  in  number  as  the  weeks  of  the  year.  Fifty-two  were  to  roll  that  after- 
noon on  the  life-tide  of  the  city  to  the  boundless  everlasting  sea.  Before  their 
cells  were  quit  of  them,  new  occupants  were  appointed  ; before  their  blood  ran 
into  the  blood  spilled  yesterday,  the  blood  that  was  to  mingle  with  theirs  to- 
morrow was  already  set  apart. 

Two  score  and  twelve  were  told  off.  From  the  farmer-general  of  seventy, 
whose  riches  could  not  buy  his  life,  to  the  seamstress  of  twenty,  whose  poverty 
and  obscurity  could  not  save  her.  Physical  diseases,  engendered  in  the  vices  and 
neglects  of  men,  will  seize  on  victims  of  all  degrees ; and  the  frightful  moral 
disorder,  born  of  unspeakable  suffering,  intolerable  oppression,  and  heartless 
indifference,  smote  equally  without  distinction. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  a cell,  had  sustained  himself  with  no  flattering  delusion 
since  he  came  to  it  from  the  Tribunal.  In  every  line  of  the  narrative  he  had  heard, 
he  had  heard  his  condemnation.  He  had  fully  comprehended  that  no  personal 
influence  could  possibly  save  him,  that  he  was  virtually  sentenced  by  the  millions, 
and  that  units  could  avail  him  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy,  with  the  face  of  his  beloved  wife  fresh  before 
him,  to  compose  his  mind  to  what  it  must  bear.  His  hold  on  life  was  strong,  and 
it  was  very,  very  hard,  to  loosen ; by  gradual  efforts  and  degrees  unclosed  a little 
here,  it  clenched  the  tighter  there  ; and  when  he  brought  his  strength  to  bear  on 
that  hand  and  it  yielded,  this  was  closed  again.  There  was  a hurry,  too,  in  all 
his  thoughts,  a turbulent  and  heated  working  of  his  heart,  that  contended  against 
resignation.  If,  for  a moment,  he  did  feel  resigned,  then  his  wife  and  child  who 
had  to  live  after  him,  seemed  to  protest  and  to  make  it  a selfish  thing. 

But,  all  this  was  at  first.  Before  long,  the  consideration  that  there  was  no  dis- 
grace in  the  fate  he  must  meet,  and  that  numbers  went  the  same  road  wrongfully, 
a.ud  trod  it  firmly  every  day,  sprang  up  to  stimulate  him.  Next  followed  the 
thought  that  much  of  the  future  peace  of  mind  enjoyable  by  the  dear  ones, 
depended  on  his  quiet  fortitude.  So,  by  degrees  he  calmed  into  the  better  state, 
when  he  could  raise  his  thoughts  much  higher,  and  draw  comfort  down. 

Before  it  had  set  in  dark  on  the  night  of  his  condemnation,  he  had  travelled 
thus  far  on  his  last  way.  Being  allowed  to  purchase  the  means  of  writing,  and  a 
light,  he  sat  down  to  write  until  such  time  as  the  prison  lamps  should  be  extin- 
guished. 

He  wrote  a long  letter  to  Lucie,  showing  her  that  he  had  known  nothing  of 
her  father’s  imprisonment,  until  he  had  heard  of  it  from  herself,  and  that  he  had 
oeen  as  ignorant  as  she  of  his  father’s  and  uncle’s  responsibility  for  that  misery, 


Darnay  prepares  to  die. 


203 


until  the  paper  had  been  read.  He  had  already  explained  to  her  that  his  con- 
cealment from  herself  of  the  name  he  had  relinquished,  was  the  one  condition — 
fully  intelligible  now — that  her  father  had  attached  to  their  betrothal,  and  was 
the  one  promise  he  had  still  exacted  on  the  morning  of  their  marriage.  He  en- 
treated her,  for  her  father’s  sake,  never  to  seek  to  know  whether  her  father  had 
become  oblivious  of  the  existence  of  the  paper,  or  had  had  it  recalled  to  him  (for 
the  moment,  or  for  good),  by  the  story  of  the  Tower,  on  that  old  Sunday  under  the 
dear  old  plane-tree  in  the  garden.  If  he  had  preserved  any  definite  remembrance 
of  it,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  supposed  it  destroyed  with  the  Bastille, 
when  he  had  found  no  mention  of  it  among  the  relics  of  prisoners  which  the 
populace  had  discovered  there,  and  which  had  been  described  to  all  the  world. 
He  besought  her — though  he  added  that  he  knew  it  was  needless — to  console  her 
father,  by  impressing  him  through  every  tender  means  she  could  think  of,  with 
the  truth  that  he  had  done  nothing  for  which  he  could  justly  reproach  himself, 
but  had  uniformly  forgotten  himself  for  their  joint  sakes.  Next  to  her  preserva- 
tion of  his  own  last  grateful  love  and  blessing,  and  her  overcoming  of  her  sorrow, 
to  devote  herself  to  their  dear  child,  he  adjured  her,  as  they  would  meet  in 
Heaven,  to  comfort  her  father. 

To  her  father  himself,  he  wrote  in  the  same  strain  ; but,  he  told  her  father  that 
he  expressly  confided  his  wife  and  child  to  his  care.  And  he  told  him  this,  very 
strongly,  with  the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  any  despondency  or  dangerous  retro- 
spect towards  which  he  foresaw  he  might  be  tending. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  he  commended  them  all,  and  explained  his  worldly  affairs.  That 
done,  with  many  added  sentences  of  grateful  friendship  and  warm  attachment,  all 
was  done.  He  never  thought  of  Carton.  His  mind  was  so  full  of  the  others, 
that  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 

He  had  time  to  finish  these  letters  before  the  lights  were  put  out.  When  he  lay 
down  on  his  straw  bed,  he  thought  he  had  done  with  this  world. 

But,  it  beckoned  him  back  in  his  sleep,  and  showed  itself  in  shining  forms. 
Free  and  happy,  back  in  the  old  house  in  Soho  (though  it  had  nothing  in  it  like 
the  real  house),  unaccountably  released  and  light  of  heart,  he  was  with  Lucie 
again,  and  she  told  him  it  was  all  a dream,  and  he  had  never  gone  away.  A 
pause  of  forgetfulness,  and  then  he  had  even  suffered,  and  had  come  back  to  her, 
dead  and  at  peace,  and  yet  there  was  no  difference  in  him.  Another  pause  of 
oblivion,  and  he  awoke  in  the  sombre  morning,  unconscious  where  he  was  or 
what  had  happened,  until  it  flashed  upon  his  mind,  “ this  is  the  day  of  my 
death !” 

Thus,  had  he  come  through  the  hours,  to  the  day  when  the  fifty-two  heads  were 
to  fall.  And  now,  while  he  was  composed,  and  hoped  that  he  could  meet  the 
end  with  quiet  heroism,  a new  action  began  in  his  waking  thoughts,  which  was 
very  difficult  to  master. 

He  had  never  seen  the  instrument  that  was  to  terminate  his  life.  How  high  it 
was  from  the  ground,  how  many  steps  it  had,  where  he  would  be  stood,  how  he 
would  be  touched,  whether  the  touching  hands  would  be  dyed  red,  which  way  his 
face  would  be  turned,  whether  he  would  be  the  first,  or  might  be  the  last : these 
md  many  similar  questions,  in  no  wise  directed  by  his  will,  obtruded  themselves 
over  and  over*  again,  countless  times.  Neither  were  they  connected  with  fear: 
he  was  conscious  of  no  fear.  Rather,  they  originated  in  a strange  besetting  desire 
to  know  what  to  do  when  the  time  came  ; a desire  gigantically  disproportionate 
to  the  few  swift  moments  to  which  it  referred  ; a wondering  that  was  more  like  the 
wondering  of  some  other  spirit  within  his,  than  his  own. 

The  hours  went  on  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the  clocks  struck  the  numbers 
he  would  never  hear  again.  Nine  gone  for  ever,  ten  gone  for  ever,  eleven  gone 


£04 


A Tale  of  Two  Citieu 


for  ever,  twelve  coming  on  to  pass  away.  After  a hard  contest  with  that  eccentric 
action  of  thought  which  had  last  perplexed  him,  he  had  got  the  better  of  it.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  softly  repeating  their  names  to  himself.  The  worst  of  the 
strife  was  over.  He  could  walk  up  and  down,  free  from  distracting  fancies,  pray- 
ing for  himself  and  for  them. 

Twelve  gone  for  ever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was  Three,  and  he  knew  he  would 
be  summoned  some  time  earlier,  inasmuch  as  the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily  and 
slowly  through  the  streets.  Therefore,  he  resolved  to  keep  Two  before  his  mind, 
as  the  hour,  and  so  to  strengthen  himself  in  the  interval  that  he  might  be  able, 
after  that  time,  to  strengthen  others. 

Walking  regularly  to  and  fro  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  a very 
different  man  from  the  prisoner,  who  had  walked  to  and  fro  at  La  Force,  he  heard 
One  struck  away  from  him,  without  surprise.  The  hour  had  measured  like  most 
other  hours.  Devoutly  thankful  to  Heaven  for  his  recovered  self-possession,  he 
thought,  “ The-®  is  but:  another  now,”  and  turned  to  walk  again. 

Footsteps  in  the  stone  passage  outside  the  door.  He  stopped. 

The  key  was  put  in  the  lock,  and  turned.  Before  the  door  was  opened,  or  as 
it  opened,  a man  said  in  a low  voice,  in  English  : “ He  has  never  seen  me  here  ; 
1 have  kept  out  of  his  way.  Go  you  in  alone  ; I wait  near.  Lose  no  time  !” 

The  door  was  quickly  opened  and  closed,  and  there  stood  before  him  face  to 
face,  quiet,  intent  upon  him,  with  the  light  of  a smile  on  his  features,  and  a cau- 
tionary finger  on  his  lip,  Sydney  Carton. 

There  was  something  so  bright  and  remarkable  in  his  look,  that,  for  the  first 
moment,  the  prisoner  misdoubted  him  to  be  an  apparition  of  his  own  imagining. 
But,  he  spoke,  and  it  was  his  voice ; he  took  the  prisoner’s  hand,  and  it  was  his 
real  grasp. 

“ Of  all  the  people  upon  earth,  you  least  expected  to  see  me?”  he  said. 

“ I could  not  believe  it  to  be  you.  I can  scarcely  believe  it  now.  You  are  not  ” 
— the  apprehension  came  suddenly  into  his  mind — “a  prisoner  ?” 

“No.  I am  accidentally  possessed  of  a power  over  one  of  the  keepers  here, 
and  in  virtue  of  it  I stand  before  you.  I come  from  her — your  wife,  dear 
Damay.” 

The  prisoner  wrung  his  hand. 

“ I bring  you  a request  from  her.” 

“ What  is  it  ?” 

“ A most  earnest,  pressing,  and  emphatic  entreaty,  addressed  to  you  in  the 
most  pathetic  tones  of  the  voice  so  dear  to  you,  that  you  well  remember.” 

The  prisoner  turned  his  face  partly  aside. 

“ You  have  no  time  to  ask  me  why  I bring  it,  or  what  it  means  ; I have  no  time 
to  tell  you.  You  must  comply  with  it — take  off  those  boots  you  wear,  and  draw 
on  these  of  mine.” 

There  was  a chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  behind  the  prisoner.  Carton, 
pressing  forward,  had  already,  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down  into  it, 
and  stood  over  him,  barefoot. 

“ Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands  to  them ; put  your  will  to 
them.  Quick!” 

“ Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place  ; it  never  can  be  done.  You  will 
only  die  with  me.  It  is  madness.” 

“ It  would  be  madness  if  I asked  you  to  escape  ; but  do  I ? When  I ask  you 
to  pass  out  at  that  door,  tell  me  it  is  madness  and  remain  here.  Change  tLit 
cravat  for  this  of  mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine.  While  you  do  it,  let  me  take 
tins  ribbon  from  your  hail,  and  shake  out  your  hair  like  this  of  mine !” 


Sydney  Carton  dictates  a letter . 


205 


W;th  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a strength  both  of  will  and  action,  that 
appeared  quite  supernatural,  he  forced  all  these  changes  upon  him.  The  prisoner 
was  like  a young  child  in  his  hands. 

“ Carton  ! Dear  Carton  ! It  is  madness.  It  cannot  be  accomplished,  it  never 
can  be  done,  it  has  been  attempted,  and  has  always  failed.  I implore  you  not  to 
add  your  death  to  the  bitterness  of  mine.” 

“ Do  I ask  you,  my  dear  Darnay,  to  pass  the  door  ? When  I ask  that,  refuse. 
There  are  pen  and  ink  and  paper  on  this  table.  Is  your  hand  steady  enough  to 
write  ?” 

“It  was  when  you  came  in.” 

“ Steady  it  again,  and  write  what  I shall  dictate.  Quick,  friend,  quick  !” 
Pressing  his  hand  to  his  bewildered  head,  Darnay  sat  down  at  the  table.  Car- 
ton, with  his  right  hand  in  his  breast,  stood  close  beside  him. 

“ Write  exactly  as  I speak.” 

“ To  whom  do  I address  it  ?” 

“ To  no  one.”  Carton  still  had  his  hand  in  his  breast, 

“ Do  I date  it  ?” 

“No.” 

The  prisoner  looked  up,  at  each  question.  Carton,  standing  over  him  with  his 
hand  in  his  breast,  looked  down. 

“ 4 If  you  remember,’  ” said  Carton,  dictating,  “ ‘the  words  that  passed  between 
us,  long  ago,  you  will  readily  comprehend  this  when  you  see  it.  You  do  remem- 
ber them,  I know.  It  is  not  in  your  nature  to  forget  them.’  ” 

He  was  drawing  his  hand  from  his  breast ; the  prisoner  chancing  to  look  up 
in  his  hurried  wonder  as  he  wrote,  the  hand  stopped,  closing  upon  something. 
“ Have  you  written  ‘ forget  them  !’  ” Carton  asked. 

“ I have.  Is  that  a weapon  in  your  hand  ?” 

“ No  ; I am  not  armed.” 

“ What  is  it  in  your  hand  ?” 

“ You  shall  know  directly.  Write  on;  there  are  but  a few  words  more.”  He 
dictated  again.  “ ‘ I am  thankful  that  the  time  has  come,  when  I can  prove 
them.  That  I do  so  is  no  subject  for  regret  or  grief.’  ” As  he  said  these  words 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  writer,  his  hand  slowly  and  softly  moved  down  close  to 
the  writer’s  face. 

The  pen  dropped  from  Darnay’s  fingers  on  the  table,  and  he  looked  about  him 
vacantly. 

“ What  vapour  is  that  ?”  he  asked. 

“ Vapour  ?” 

“ Something  that  crossed  me  ?” 

“I  am  conscious  of  nothing  ; there  can  be  nothing  here.  Take  up  the  pen  and 
finish.  Hurry,  hurry  !” 

As  if  his  memory  were  impaired,  or  his  faculties  disordered,  the  prisoner  made 
an  effort  to  rally  his  attention.  As  he  looked  at  Carton  with  clouded  eyes  and 
with  an  altered  manner  of  breathing,  Carton— his  hand  again  in  his  breast — looked 
stea  lily  at  him. 

“ Hurry,  hurry !” 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper,  once  more. 

“ ‘ If  it  had  been  otherwise  ;’  ” Carton’s  hand  was  again  watchfully  and  softly 
stealing  down  ; “ ‘ I never  should  have  used  the  longer  opportunity.  If  it  had 
been  otherwise ” the  hand  was  at  the  prisoner’s  face ; “ ‘ I should  but  have  had 

so  much  the  more  to  answer  for.  If  it  had  been  otherwise * ” Carton  looked 

at  the  pen  and  saw  it  was  trailing  off  into  unintelligible  signs. 

Carton’s  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more.  The  prisoner  sprang  up  with 


to  6 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


a reproachful  look,  but  Carton’s  hand  was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and  Car- 
ton’s left  arm  caught  him  round  the  waist.  For  a few  seconds  he  faintly  struggled 
with  the  man  who  had  come  to  lay  down  his  life  for  him  ; but,  within  a minute  or 
so,  he  was  stretched  insensible  on  the  ground. 

Quickly*  but  with  hands  as  true  to  the  purpose  as  his  heart  was,  Carton  dressed 
himself  in  the  clothes  the  prison  r had  laid  aside,  combed  back  his  hair,  and  tied 
it  with  4he  ribbon  the  prisoner  had  worn.  Then,  he  softly  called,  “ Enter  there  ! 
Come  in  !”  and  the  Spy  presented  himself. 

“You  see?”  said  Carton,  looking  up,  as  he  kneeled  on  one  knee  beside  the 
insensible  figure,  putting  the  paper  in  the  breast : “is  your  hazard  very  great  ?” 

“ Mr.  Carton,”  the  Spy  answered,  with  a timid  snap  of  his  fingers,  “ my  hazard 
is  not  that , in  the  thick  of  business  here,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of  your 
bargain.” 

“ Don’t  fear  me.  I will  be  true  to  the  death.” 

“ You  must  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty-two  is  to  be  right.  Being  made 
right  by  you  in  that  dress,  I shall  have  no  fear.” 

“ Have  no  fear  ! I shall  soon  be  out  of  the  way  of  harming  you,  and  the  rest 
will  soon  be  far  from  here,  please  God  ! Now,  get  assistance  and  take  me  to  the 
roach.” 

“ You  ?”  said  the  Spy  nervously. 

“ Him,  man,  with  whom  I have  exchanged.  You  go  out  at  the  gate  by  which 
you  brought  me  in  ?” 

“Of  course.” 

“ I was  weak  and  faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  and  I am  fainter  now  you 
take  me  out.  The  parting  interview  has  overpowered  me.  Such  a thing  has 
happened  here,  often,  and  too  often.  Your  life  is  in  your  own  hands.  Quick ! 
Call  assistance !” 

“ You  swear  not  to  betray  me  ?”  said  the  trembling  Spy,  as  he  paused  for  a last 
moment. 

“Man,  man!”  returned  Carton,  stamping  his  foot;  “have  I sworn  by  no 
solemn  vow  already,  to  go  through  with  this,  that  you  waste  the  precious  moments 
now  ? Take  him  yourself  to  the  court-yard  you  know  of,  place  him  yourself  in  the 
carriage,  show  him  yourself  to  Mr.  Lorry,  tell  him  yourself  to  give  him  no  resto- 
rative but  air,  and  to  remember  my  words  of  last  night,  and  his  promise  of  last 
night,  and  drive  away ! ” 

The  Spy  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself  at  the  table,  resting  his  forehead 
on  his  hands.  The  Spy  returned  immediately,  with  two  men. 

“ How,  then  ?”  said  one  of  them,  contemplating  the  fallen  figure.  “ So  afflicted 
to  find  that  his  friend  has  drawn  a prize  in  the  lottery  of  Sainte  Guillotine  ?” 

“ A good  patriot,”  said  the  other,  “ could  hardly  have  been  more  afflicted  if  the 
Aristocrat  had  drawn  a blank.” 

They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a litter  they  had  brought  to  the 
door,  and  bent  to  carry  it  away. 

“ The  time  is  short,  Evremonde,”  said  the  Spy,  in  a warning  voice. 

“ I know  it  well,”  answered  Carton.  “ Be  careful  of  my  friend,  I entreat  you, 
and  leave  me.” 

“ Come,  then,  my  children,”  said  Barsad.  “ Lift  him,  and  come  away !” 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  alone.  Straining  his  powers  of  listening 
to  the  utmost,  he  listened  for  any  sound  that  might  denote  suspicion  or  alarm. 
There  was  none.  Keys  turned,  doors  clashed,  footsteps  passed  along  distant 
passages  : no  cry  was  raised,  or  hurry  made,  that  seemed  unusual.  Breathing 
more  freely  in  a little  while,  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  listened  again  until  the 
slock  struck  Two. 


107 


On  the  list  foi  the  Scaffold, 

Sounds  that  he  was  not  afraid  of,  for  he  divined  their  meaning,  then  began  to 
he  audible.  Several  doors  were  opened  in  succession,  and  finally  his  own.  A 
gaoler,  with  a list  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely  saying,  “ Follow  me,  Evremonde!” 
and  he  followed  into  a large  dark  room,  at  a distance.  It  was  a dark  winter  day, 
and  what  with  the  shadows  within,  and  what  with  the  shadows  without,  he  could 
but  dimly  discern  the  others  who  were  brought  there  to  have  their  arms  bound. 
Some  were  standing  ; some  seated.  Some  were  lamenting,  and  in  restless  motion  ; 
but,  these  w'ere  few.  The  great  majority  were  silent  and  still,  looking  fixedly  at 
'Jthe  ground. 

As  he  stood  by  the  wall  in  a dim  corner,  while  some  of  the  fifty-two  were 
brought  in  after  him,  one  man  stopped  in  passing,  to  embrace  him,  as  having  a 
knowledge  of  him.  It  thrilled  him  with  a great  dread  of  discovery ; but  the  man 
went  on.  A very  few  moments  after  that,  a young  woman,  with  a slight  girlish 
form,  a sweet  spare  face  in  which  there  was  no  vestige  of  colour,  and  large  widely 
opened  patient  eyes,  rose  from  the  seat  where  he  had  observed  her  sitting,  and 
came  to  speak  to  him. 

“ Citizen  Evremonde,”  she  said,  touching  him  with  her  cold  hand.  “ I am  a 
poor  little  seamstress,  who  was  with  you  in  La  Force.” 

He  murmured  for  answer  : “ True.  I forget  what  you  were  accused  of?” 

“ Plots.  Though  the  just  Heaven  knows  I am  innocent  of  any.  Is  it  likely  ? 
Who  would  think  of  plotting  with  a poor  little  weak  creature  like  me  ?” 

The  forlorn  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  so  touched  him,  that  tears  started  from 
hk  eyes. 

“ I am  not  afraid  to  die,  Citizen  Evremonde,  but  I have  done  nothing.  I am 
not  unwilling  to  die,  if  the  Republic  which  is  to  do  so  much  good  to  us  poor,  will 
profit  by  my  death  ; but  I do  not  know  how  that  can  be,  Citizen  Evremonde. 
Such  a poor  weak  little  creature  ! ” 

As  the  last  thing  on  earth  that  his  heart  was  to  warm  and  soften  to,  it  warmed 
and  softened  to  this  pitiable  girl. 

“ I heard  you  were  released,  Citizen  Evremonde.  I hoped  it  was  true  ?” 

“ It  was.  But,  I was  again  taken  and  condemned.” 

“ If  I may  ride  with  you,  Citizen  Evremonde,  will  you  let  me  hold  your  hand  ? 
I am  not  afraid,  but  I am  little  and  weak,  and  it  will  give  me  more  courage.” 

As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw  a sudden  doubt  in  them,  and 
then  astonishment.  He  pressed  the  wrork-wom,  hunger-worn  young  fingers,  and 
touched  his  lips. 

“ Are  you  dying  for  him  ?”  she  whispered. 

“ And  his  wife  and  child.  Hush ! Yes.” 

“ O you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand,  stranger  ?” 

“ Hush ! Yes,  my  poor  sister ; to  the  last.” 

The  same  shadows  that  are  falling  on  the  prison,  are  falling,  in  that  same  hour 
of  the  early  afternoon,  on  the  Barrier  with  the  crowd  about  it,  when  a coach  going 
out  of  Paris  drives  up  to  be  examined. 

“ Who  goes  here  ? Whom  have  we  within  ? Papers ! ” 

The  papers  are  handed  out,  and  read. 

“ Alexandre  Manette.  Physician.  French.  Which  is  he?” 

This  is  he ; this  helpless,  inarticulately  murmuring,  wandering  old  man  pointed 

6Ut. 

u Apparently  the  Citizen-Doctor  is  not  in  his  right  mind  ? The  Revolution- 
fever  will  have  been  too  much  for  him  ?” 

Greatly  too  much  for  him. 

u Hah  ! Many  suffer  with  it.  Lucie.  His  daughter.  French.  Which  is  she  ?* 


208 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


This  is  she. 

“ Apparently  it  must  be.  Lucie,  the  wife  of  Evremonde ; is  it  not  ?” 

It  is. 

“ Hah  ! Evremonde  has  an  assignation  elsewhere.  Lucie,  her  child.  English. 
This  is  she  ?” 

She  and  no  other. 

“ Kiss  me,  child  of  Evremonde.  Now,  thou  hast  kissed  a good  Republican; 
something  new  in  thy  family ; remember  it ! Sydney  Carton.  Advocate.  English. 
Which  is  he  ? ” 

He  lies  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  carriage.  He,  too,  is  pointed  out. 

“ Apparently  the  English  advocate  is  in  a swoon  ?” 

It  is  hoped  he  will  recover  in  the  fresher  air.  It  is  represented  that  he  is  not  in 
strong  health,  and  has  separated  sadly  from  a friend  who  is  under  the  displeasure 
of  the  Republic.  4 

“ Is  that  all  ? It  is  not  a great  deal,  that ! Many  are  under  the  displeasure  of 
the  Republic,  and  must  look  out  at  the  little  window.  Jarvis  Lony.  Banker. 
English.  Which  is  he  ?” 

“ I am  he.  Necessarily,  being  the  last.” 

It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  replied  to  all  the  previous  questions.  It  is  Jarvis 
Lorry  who  has  alighted  and  stands  with  his  hand  on  the  coach  door,  replying  to  a 
group  of  officials.  They  leisurely  walk  round  the  carriage  and  leisurely  mount  the 
box,  to  look  at  what  little  luggage  it  carries  on  the  roof ; the  country-people 
hanging  about,  press  nearer  to  the  coach  doors  and  greedily  stare  in ; a little  child, 
carried  by  its  mother,  has  its  short  arm  held  out  for  it,  that  it  may  touch  the  wife 
of  an  aristocrat  who  has  gone  to  the  Guillotine. 

“ Behold  your  papers,  Jams  Lorry,  countersigned.” 

“ One  can  depart,  citizen  ?” 

“ One  can  depart.  Forward,  my  postilions  ! A good  journey ! ” 

“ I salute  you,  citizens. — And  the  first  danger  passed ! ” 

These  are  again  the  words  of  Jarvis  Loriy,  as  he  clasps  his  hands,  and  looks 
upward.  There  is  terror  in  the  carriage,  there  is  weeping,  there  is  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  insensible  traveller. 

“ Are  we  not  going  too  slowly  ? Can  they  not  be  induced  to  go  faster  ?”  asks 
Lucie,  clinging  to  the  old  man. 

“ It  would  seem  like  flight,  my  darling.  I must  not  urge  them  too  much  ; it 
would  rouse  suspicion.” 

“ Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued  !” 

“ The  road  is  clear,  my  dearest.  So  far,  we  are  not  pursued.” 

Houses  in  twos  and  threes  pass  by  us,  solitary  farms,  ruinous  buildings,  dye- 
works,  tanneries,  and  the  like,  open  country,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  The  hard 
uneven  pavement  is  under  us,  the  soft  deep  mud  is  on  either  side.  Sometimes, 
we  strike  into  the  skirting  mud,  to  avoid  the  stones  that  clatter  us  and  shake  us ; 
sometimes  we  stick  in  ruts  and  sloughs  there.  The  agony  of  our  impatience  is  then 
so  great,  that  in  our  wild  alarm  and  hurry  we  are  for  getting  out  and  running — 
hiding— doing  anything  but  stopping. 

Out  of  the  open  country,  in  again  among  ruinous  buildings,  solitary  farms,  dye- 
works,  tanneries,  and  the  like,  cottages  in  twos  and  threes,  avenues  of  leafless  trees. 
Have  these  men  deceived  us,  and  taken  us  back  by  another  road  ? Is  not  this  the 
same  place  twice  over  ? Thank  Heaven,  no.  A village.  Look  back,  look  back, 
and  see  if  we  are  pursued  ! Hush  ! the  posting-house. 

Leisurely,  our  four  horses  are  taken  out ; leisurely,  the  coach  stands  in  the  little 
sue“t,  bereft  of  horses,  and  with  no  likelihood  upon  it  of  ever  moving  again ; 
’eismely,  the  new  horses  come  into  visible  existence,  one  by  one ; leisurely,  the 


Sydney  Carton  has  helped  her . 


209 


new  postilions  follow,  sucking  and  plaiting  the  lashes  of  their  whips  ; leisurely, 
the  old  postilions  count  their  money,  make  wrong  additions,  and  arrive  at  dis- 
satisfied results.  All  the  time,  our  overfraught  hearts  are  beating  at  a rate  that  would 
far  outstrip  the  fastest  gallop  of  the  fastest  horses  ever  foaled. 

At  length  the  new  postilions  are  in  their  saddles,  and  the  old  are  left  behind. 
We  are  through  the  village,  up  the  hill,  and  down  the  hill,  and  on  the  low  watery 
grounds.  Suddenly,  the  postilions  exchange  speech  with  animated  gesticulation, 
and  the  horses  are  pulled  up,  almost  on  their  haunches.  We  are  pursued  ? 

“ Ho  ! Within  the  carriage  there.  Speak  then  ! ” 

“ What  is  it  ?”  asks  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  out  at  window. 

How  many  did  they  say  ?” 

“ I do  not  understand  you.” 

“ — At  the  last  post.  How  many  to  the  Guillotine  to-day  ?” 

“ Fifty-two.” 

“ I said  so ! A brave  number ! My  fellow- citizen  here  would  have  it  forty- 
two  ; ten  more  heads  are  worth  having.  The  Guillotine  goes  handsomely.  I love 
it.  Hi  forward.  Whoop!” 

The  night  comes  on  dark.  He  moves  more ; he  is  beginning  to  revive,  and  to 
speak  intelligibly ; he  thinks  they  are  still  together ; he  asks  him,  by  his  name, 
what  he  has  in  his  hand.  O pity  us,  kind  Heaven,  and  help  us  ! Look  out,  look 
out,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued. 

The  wind  is  rushing  after  us,  and  the  clouds  are  flying  after  us,  and  the  moon  is 
plunging  after  us,  and  the  whole  wild  night  is  in  pursuit  of  us ; but,  so  far,  we  are 
pursued  by  nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  KNITTING  DONE. 

In  that  same  juncture  of  time  when  the  Fifty-Two  awaited  their  fate,  Madame 
Defarge  held  darkly  ominous  council  with  The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  of 
the  Revolutionary  Jury.  Not  in  the  wine-shop  did  Madame  Defarge  confer  with 
these  ministers,  but  in  the  shed  of  the  wood-sawyer,  erst  a mender  of  roads.  The 
sawyer  himself  did  not  participate  in  the  conference,  but  abided  at  a little  distance, 
like  an  outer  satellite  who  was  not  to  speak  until  required,  or  to  offer  an  opinion 
until  invited. 

“ But  our  Defarge,”  said  Jacques  Three,  “ is  undoubtedly  a good  Republican  ? 
Eh?” 

“ There  is  no  better,”  the  voluble  Vengeance  protested  in  her  shrill  notes,  “ in 
France.” 

“ Peace,  little  Vengeance,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  laying  her  hand  with  a slight 
fiown  on  her  lieutenant’s  lips,  “hear  me  speak.  My  husband,  fellow-citizen,  is  a 
good  Republican  and  a bold  man  ; he  has  deserved  well  of  the  Republic,  and 
possesses  its  confidence.  But  my  husband  has  his  weaknesses,  and  he  is  so  weak 
as  to  relent  towards  this  Doctor.” 

“ It  is  a great  pity,”  croaked  Jacques  Three,  dubiously  shaking  his  head,  with 
his  cruel  fingers  at  his  hungry  mouth  ; “ it  is  not  quite  like  a good  citizen ; it  is  a 
thing  to  regret.” 

“See  you,”  said  madame,  “ I care  nothing  for  this  Doctor,  I.  He  may  wear 
his  head  or  lose  it,  for  any  interest  I have  in  him  ; it  is  all  one  to  me.  But,  the 

p 


210  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

Evremonde  people  are  to  be  exterminated,  and  the  wife  and  child  must  follow  the 
husband  and  father.” 

“ She  has  a fine  head  for  it,”  croaked  Jacques  Three.  “ I have  seen  blue  eyes 
and  golden  hair  there,  and  they  looked  charming  when  Samson  held  them  up.” 
Ogre  that  he  was,  he  spoke  like  an  epicure. 

Madame  Defarge  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  reflected  a little. 

“ The  child  also,”  observed  Jacques  Three,  with  a meditative  enjoyment  of  his 
words,  “ has  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes.  And  we  seldom  have  a child  there.  It 
is  a pretty  sight ! ” 

“In  a word,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  coming  out  of  her  short  abstraction,  “ I 
cannot  trust  my  husband  in  this  matter.  Not  on’v  do  I feel,  since  last  night,  that 
I dare  not  confide  to  him  the  details  of  my  projects ; but  also  I feel  that  if  I delay, 
there  is  danger  of  his  giving  warning,  and  then  they  might  escape.” 

“ That  must  never  be,”  croaked  Jacques  Three  ; “ no  one  must  escape.  We 
have  not  half  enough  as  it  is.  We  ought  to  have  six  score  a day.” 

“ In  a word,”  Madame  Defarge  went  on,  “ my  husband  has  not  my  reason  for 
pursuing  this  family  to  annihilation,  and  I have  not  his  reason  for  regarding  this 
Doctor  with  any  sensibility.  I must  act  for  myself,  therefore.  Come  hither, 
little  citizen.” 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  held  her  in  the  respect,  and  himself  in  the  submission, 
of  mortal  fear,  advanced  with  his  hand  to  his  red  cap. 

“Touching  those  signals,  little  citizen,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  sternly,  “that 
she  made  to  the  prisoners ; you  are  ready  to  bear  witness  to  them  this  very  day  ?” 
“ Ay,  ay,  why  not ! ” cried  the  sawyer.  “ Every  day,  in  all  weathers,  from  twc 
to  four,  always  signalling,  sometimes  with  the  little  one,  sometimes  without.  1 
know  what  I know.  I have  seen  with  my  eyes.” 

He  made  all  manner  of  gestures  while  he  spoke,  as  if  in  incidental  imitation  cx 
some  few  of  the  great  diversity  of  signals  that  he  had  never  seen. 

“ Clearly  plots,”  said  Jacques  Three.  “ Transparently ! ” 

“ There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Jury  ?”  inquired  Madame  Defarge,  letting  her  eye* 
turn  to  him  with  a gloomy  smile. 

“ Rely  upon  the  patriotic  Jury,  dear  citizeness.  I answer  for  my  fellow 
Jurymen.” 

“Now,  let  me  see,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  pondering  again.  “Yet  once 
more  ! Can  I spare  this  Doctor  to  my  husband  ? I have  no  feeling  either  way. 
Can  I spare  him  ?” 

“ He  would  count  as  one  head,”  observed  Jacques  Three,  in  a low  voice.  “ We 
really  have  not  heads  enough  ; it  would  be  a pity,  I think.” 

“ He  was  signalling  with  her  when  I saw  her,”  argued  Madame  Defarge;  “ I 
cannot  speak  of  one  without  the  other ; and  I must  not  be  silent,  and  trust  the 
case  wholly  to  him,  this  little  citizen  here.  For,  I am  not  a bad  witness.” 

The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  vied  with  each  other  in  their  fervent  pro- 
testations that  she  was  the  most  admirable  and  marvellous  of  witnesses.  The  little 
citizen,  not  to  be  outdone,  declared  her  to  be  a celestial  witness. 

“He  must  take  his  chance,”  said  Madame  Defarge.  “No,  I cannot  spare 
him  ! You  are  engaged  at  three  o’clock ; you  are  going  to  see  the  batch  of  to-day 
executed. — You  ?” 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  wood-sawyer,  who  hurriedly  replied  in  the 
affirmative  : seizing  the  occasion  to  add  that  he  was  the  most  ardent  of  Repub- 
licans, and  that  he  would  be  in  effect  the  most  desclate  of  Republicans,  if  anything 
prevented  him  from  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  smoking  his  afternoon  pipe  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  droll  national  barber.  He  was  so  very  demonstrative  herein, 
that  be  n ight  have  been  suspected  (perhaps  was,  by  the  dark  eyes  that  looked  con- 


More  heads  wanted. 


211 


temptuously  at  him  out  of  Madame  Defarge’s  head)  of  having  his  small  individual 
fears  for  his  own  personal  safety,  every  hour  in  the  day. 

“I,”  said  madame,  “ am  equally  engaged  at  the  same  place.  After  it  is  over — 
say  at  eight  to  right — corr  e you  to  me,  in  Saint  Antoine,  and  we  will  give  infor- 
mation against  diese  people  at  my  Section.” 

The  wood  sawyer  said  he  would  be  proud  and  flattered  to  attend  the  citizeness. 
The  citizeve^s  looking  at  him,  he  became  embarrassed,  evaded  her  glance  as  a 
small  dog  would  have  done,  retreated  among  his  wood,  and  hid  his  confusion  over 
the  handle  of  his  saw. 

Msdame  Defarge  beckoned  the  Juryman  and  The  Vengeance  a little  nearer  to 
the  door,  and  there  expounded  her  further  views  to  them  thus  : 

44  She  will  now  be  at  home,  awaiting  the  moment  of  his  death.  She  will  be 
mourning  and  grieving.  She  will  be  in  a state  of  mind  to  impeach  the  justice  of 
the  Republic.  She  will  be  full  of  sympathy  with  its  enemies.  I will  go  to  her.” 

44  What  an  admirable  woman;  what  amadorable  woman!”  exclaimed  Jacques 
Three,  rapturously.  44  Ah,  my  cherished  ! ” cried  The  Vengeance ; and  embraced 
h*r. 

“Take  you  my  knitting,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  placing  it  in  her  lieutenant’s 
hands,  44  and  have  it  ready  for  me  in  my  usual  seat.  Keep  me  my  usual  chair. 
Go  you  there,  straight,  for  there  will  probably  be  a greater  concourse  than  usual, 
to-day.” 

44 1 willingly  obey  the  orders  of  my  Chief,”  said  The  Vengeance  with  alacrity, 
and  kissing  her  cheek.  44  You  will  not  be  late  ?” 

44 1 shall  be  there  before  the  commencement.” 

44  And  before  the  tumbrils  arrive.  Be  sure  you  are  there,  my  soul,”  said  The 
Vengeance,  calling  after  her,  for  she  had  already  turned  into  the  street,  44  before 
the  tumbrils  arrive  ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  slightly  waved  her  hand,  to  imply  that  she  heard,  and  might 
be  relied  upon  to  arrive  in  good  time,  and  so  went  through  the  mud,  and  round  the 
corner  of  the  prison  wall.  The  Vengeance  and  the  Juryman,  looking  after  her  as 
she  walked  away,  were  highly  appreciative  of  her  fine  figure,  and  her  superb  moral 
endowments. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon  whom  the  time  laid  a dreadfully 
disfiguring  hand ; but,  there  was  not  one  among  them  more  to  be  dreaded  than 
this  ruthless  woman,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets.  Of  a strong  and 
fearless  character,  of  shrewd  sense  and  readiness,  of  great  determination,  of  that 
kind  of  beauty  which  not  only  seems  to  impart  to  its  possessor  firmness  and 
animosity,  but  to  strike  into  others  an  instinctive  recognition  of  those  qualities ; 
the  troubled  time  would  have  heaved  her  up,  under  any  circumstances.  But, 
imbued  from  her  childhood  with  a brooding  sense  of  wrong,  and  an  inveterate 
hatred  of  a class,  opportunity  had  developed  her  into  a tigress.  She  was  abso- 
lutely without  pity.  If  she  had  ever  had  the  virtue  in  her,  it  had  quite  gone 
out  of  her. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man  was  to  die  for  the  sins  of  his  fore- 
fathers ; she  saw,  not  him,  but  them.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  his  wife  was  to 
be  made  a widow  and  his  daughter  an  orphan  ; that  was  insufficient  punishment, 
because  they  were  her  natural  enemies  and  her  prey,  and  as  such  had  no  right  to 
live.  To  appeal  to  her,  was  made  hopeless  by  her  having  no  sense  of  pity,  even 
for  herself.  If  she  had  been  laid  low  in  the  streets,  in  any  of  the  many  encounters 
in  which  she  had  been  engaged,  she  would  not  have  pitied  herself ; nor,  if  she  had 
been  ordered  to  the  axe  to-morrow,  would  she  have  gone  to  it  with  any  softer  feed- 
ing than  a fierce  desire  to  change  places  with  the  man  who  sent  her  there. 

Such  a hea:  t Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her  rough  rohe.  Carelessly  worn* 


f 12 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities. 


it  was  a becoming  robi  enough,  in  a certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair  looked 
rich  under  her  coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom,  was  a loaded  pistol. 
Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a sharpened  dagger.  Thus  accoutred,  and  walking 
with  the  confident  tread  of  such  a character,  and  with  the  supple  freedom  of  a 
woman  who  had  habitually  walked  in  her  girlhood,  bare-foot  and  bare-legged,  on 
the  brown  sea-sand,  Madame  Defarge  took  her  way  along  the  streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at  that  very  moment  waiting  for 
the  completion  of  its  load,  had  been  planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of  tailing 
Miss  Pross  in  it  had  much  engaged  Mr.  Lorry’s  attention.  It  was  not  merely 
desirable  to  avoid  overloading  the  coach,  but  it  was  of  the  highest  importance  that 
the  time  occupied  in  examining  it  and  its  passengers,  should  be  reduced  to  the 
utmost ; since  their  escape  might  depend  on  the  saving  of  only  a few  seconds  here 
and  there.  Finally,  he  had  proposed,  after  anxious  consideration,  that  Miss  Pros.? 
and  Jerry,  who  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city,  should  leave  it  at  three  o’clock  in 
the  lightest-wheeled  conveyance  known  to  that  period.  Unencumbered  with 
luggage,  they  would  soon  overtake  the  coach,  and,  passing  it  and  preceding  it  on 
the  road,  would  order  its  horses  in  advance,  and  greatly  facilitate  its  progress 
during  the  precious  hours  of  the  night,  when  delay  was  the  most  to  be  dreaded. 

Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering  real  sendee  in  that  pressing 
emergency,  Miss  Pross  hailed  it  with  joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the  coach 
start,  had  known  who  it  was  that  Solomon  brought,  had  passed  some  ten  minutes 
in  tortures  of  suspense,  and  were  now  concluding  their  arrangements  to  follow 
the  coach,  even  as  Madame  Defarge,  taking  her  way  through  the  streets,  now 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  else-deserted  lodging  in  which  they  held  their 
consultation. 

“ Now  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  agitation 
was  so  great  that  she  could  hardly  speak,  or  stand,  or  move,  or  live : “what  do 
you  think  of  our  not  starting  from  this  court-yard  ? Another  carriage  having 
already  gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might  awaken  suspicion.” 

“ My  opinion,  miss,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  “ is  as  you’re  right.  Likewise  wot 
I’ll  stand  by  you,  right  or  wrong.” 

“I  am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our  precious  creatures,”  said  Miss 
Pross,  wildly  crying,  “ that  I am  incapable  of  forming  any  plan.  Are  you  capable 
of  forming  any  plan,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Cruncher  ?” 

“Respectin’  a future  spear  o’  life,  miss,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  “I  hope  so. 
Respectin’  any  present  use  o’  this  here  blessed  old  head  o’  mine,  I think  not. 
Would  you  do  me  the  favour,  miss,  to  take  notice  o’  two  promises  and  wows  wot 
it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this  here  crisis  ?” 

“ Oh,  for  gracious  sake  !”  cried  Miss  Pross,  still  wildly  crying,  “record  them  at 
once,  and  get  them  out  of  the  way,  like  an  excellent  man.” 

“ First,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a tremble,  and  who  spoke  with  an 
ashy  and  solemn  visage,  “them  poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  never  no  more  will  I 
do  it,  never  no  more  ! ” 

“ 1 am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “that  you  never  will  do 
it  again,  whatever  it  is,  and  I beg  you  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention  more 
particularly  what  it  is.” 

“No,  miss,”  returned  Jerry,  “it  shall  not  be  named  to  you.  Second:  them 
poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  and  never  no  more  will  I interfere  with  Mrs.  Cruncher’s 
flopping,  never  no  more  ! ” 

“Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be,”  said  Miss  Pross,  striving 
to  dry  her  eyes  and  compose  herself,  “ I have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mrs. 
Cruncher  she  uld  have  it  entirely  under  her  own  superintendence. — O my  pool 
darlings !” 


Mr . Cruncher  s good  resolutions  1 1 3 

**  I go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover,”  proceeded  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  a most 
alarming  tendency  to  hold  forth  as  from  a pulpit — “and  let  my  words  be  took 
down  and  took  to  Mrs.  Cruncher  through  yourself — that  wot  my  opinions  respectin’ 
flopping  has  undergone  a change,  and  that  wot  I only  hope  with  all  my  heart  as 
Mrs.  Cruncher  may  be  a flopping  at  the  present  time.” 

“ There,  there,  there  ! I hope  she  is,  my  dear  man,”  cried  the  distracted  Miss 
Pross,  “and  I hope  she  finds  it  answering  her  expectations.” 

“ Forbid  it,”  proceeded  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  additional  solemnity,  additional 
slowness,  and  additional  tendency  to  hold  forth  and  hold  out,  “ as  anything  wot  I 
have  ever  said  or  done  should  be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes  for  them  poor 
creeturs  now ! Forbid  it  as  we  shouldn’t  all  flop  (if  it  was  anyways  conwenient) 
to  get  ’em  out  o’  this  here  dismal  risk ! Forbid  it,  miss  ! Wot  I say,  for — bid 
it ! ” This  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  conclusion  after  a protracted  but  vain  endeavour  to 
find  a better  one. 

And  still  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the  streets,  came  nearer 
and  nearer. 

“ If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “you  may  rely  upon 
my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher  as  much  as  I may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand 
of  what  you  have  so  impressively  said  ; and  at  all  events  you  may  be  sure  that  I 
shall  bear  witness  to  your  being  thoroughly  in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  time.  Now, 
pray  let  us  think ! My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher,  let  us  think  ! ” 

Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the  streets,  came  nearer  and 
nearer. 

“ If  you  were  to  go  before,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ and  stop  the  vehicle  and  horses 
from  coming  here,  and  were  to  wait  somewhere  for  me  ; wouldn’t  that  be  best  ?” 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  best. 

“ Where  could  you  wait  for  me  ?”  asked  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think  of  no  locality  but  Temple 
Bar.  Alas  ! Temple  Bar  was  hundreds  of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was 
drawing  very  near  indeed. 

“ By  the  cathedral  door,”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ Would  it  be  much  out  of  the  way, 
to  take  me  in,  near  the  great  cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers  ?” 

“No,  miss,”  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 

“Then,  like  the  best  of  men,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “go  to  the  posting-house 
Straight,  and  make  that  change,” 

“ I am  doubtful,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  hesitating  and  shaking  his  head,  “ about 
leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We  don’t  know  what  may  happen.” 

“Heaven  knows  we  don’t,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “but  have  no  fear  for  me. 
Take  me  in  at  the  cathedral,  at  Three  o’Clock,  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I am 
sure  it  will  be  better  than  our  going  from  here.  I feel  certain  of  it.  There  ! 
Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher ! Think — not  of  me,  but  of  the  lives  that  may  depend 
on  both  of  us  ! ” 

This  exordium,  and  Miss  Pross’s  two  hands  in  quite  agonised  entreaty  clasping 
his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher.  With  an  encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went 
out  to  alter  the  arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself  to  follow  as  she  had  proposed. 

The  having  originated  a precaution  which  was  already  in  course  of  execution,  was 
a great  relief  to  Miss  Pross.  The  necessity  of  composing  her  appearance  so  tha< 
it  should  attract  no  special  notice  in  the  streets,  was  another  relief.  She  looked  at 
her  watch,  and  it  was  twenty  minutes  past  two.  She  had  no  time  to  lose,  but 
must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneliness  of  the  deserted  rooms,  and 
of  half-imagined  faces  peeping  from  behind  every  open  door  in  them,  Miss  Pross 
got  a basin  of  cor’d  water  and  began  laving  her  eyes,  which  were  swollen  and  rea. 


214 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


Haunted  by  her  feverish  apprehensions,  she  could  not  bear  to  have  her  sight 
obscured  for  a minute  at  a time  by  the  dripping  water,  but  constantly  paused  and 
looked  round  to  see  that  there  was  no  one  watching  her.  In  one  of  those  pauses 
she  recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she  saw  a figure  standing  in  the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water  flowed  to  the  feet  of  Madame 
Defarge.  By  strange  stern  ways,  and  through  much  staining  blood,  those  feet  had 
come  to  meet  that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said,  “The  wife  of  Evremonde; 
where  is  she  ?” 

It  flashed  upon  Miss  Pross’s  mind  that  the  doors  were  all  standing  open,  and 
would  suggest  the  flight.  Her  first  act  was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in 
the  room,  and  she  shut  them  all.  She  then  placed  herself  before  the  door  of  the 
chamber  which  Lucie  had  occupied. 

Madame  Defarge’s  dark  eyes  followed  her  through  this  rapid  movement,  and 
rested  on  her  when  it  was  finished.  Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her  ; 
years  had  not  tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the  grimness,  of  her  appearance  ; 
but,  she  too  was  a determined  woman  in  her  different  way,  and  she  measured 
Madame  Defarge  with  her  eyes,  eveiy  inch. 

“ You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of  Lucifer,”  said  Miss  Pross, 
in  her  breathing.  “ Nevertheless,  you  shall  not  get  the  better  of  me.  I am  an 
Englishwoman.” 

Madame  Defarge  looked  at  her  scornfully,  but  still  with  something  of  Miss 
Pross’s  own  perception  that  they  two  were  at  bay.  She  saw  a tight,  hard,  wiry 
woman  before  her,  as  Mr.  Lorry  had  seen  in  the  same  figure  a woman  with  a 
strong  hand,  in  the  years  gone  by.  She  knew  full  well  that  Miss  Pross  was  the 
family’s  devoted  friend ; Miss  Pross  knew  full  well  that  Madame  Defarge  was 
the  family’s  malevolent  enemy. 

“ On  my  way  yonder,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a slight  movement  of  her 
hand  towards  the  fatal  spot,  “ where  they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for 
me,  I am  come  to  make  my  compliments  to  her  in  passing.  I wish  to  see  her.” 

“I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ and  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  I’ll  hold  my  own  against  them.” 

Each  spoke  in  her  own  language  ; neither  understood  the  other’s  words ; both 
were  very  watchful,  and  intent  to  deduce  from  look  and  manner,  what  the  unin- 
telligible words  meant. 

“ It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself  concealed  from  me  at  this  moment,” 
said  Madame  Defarge.  “ Good  patriots  will  know  what  that  means.  Let  me 
see  her.  Go  tell  her  that  I wish  to  see  her.  Do  you  hear  ? ” 

“If  those  eyes  of  yours  were  bed-winches,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “and  I was 
an  English  four-poster,  they  shouldn’t  loose  a splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked 
foreign  woman  ; I am  your  match.” 

Madame  Defarge  was  not  likely  to  follow  these  idiomatic  remarks  in  detail ; 
but,  she  so  far  understood  them  as  to  perceive  that  she  was  set  at  naught. 

“ Woman  imbecile  and  pig-like  ! ” said  Madame  Defarge,  frowning.  “ I take 
no  answer  from  you.  I demand  to  see  her.  Either  tell  her  that  I demand  to  see 
her,  or  stand  out  of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go  to  her ! ” This,  with  an 
dngry  explanatory  wave  of  her  right  arm. 

“I  little  thought,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “that  I should  ever  want  to  understand 
your  nonsensical  language  ; but  I would  give  all  I have,  except  the  clothes  I wear, 
to  know  whether  you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part  of  it.” 

Neither  of  them  for  a single  moment  released  the  other’s  eyes.  Madame 
Defarge  had  not  moved  from  the  spot  where  she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first 
became  aware  of  her  ; but,  she  now  advanced  one  step. 


Miss  Pross  in  the  Breach . 


215 


“ I am  a Briton,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “ I am  desperate.  I don’t  care  an  English 
Twopence  for  myself.  I know  that  the  longer  I keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope 
there  is  for  my  Ladybird.  I’ll  not  leave  a handful  of  that  dark  hair  upon  your 
head,  if  you  lay  a finger  on  me  ! ” 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a shake  of  her  head  and  a flash  of  her  eyes  between 
every  rapid  sentence,  and  every  rapid  sentence  a whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross, 
who  had  never  struck  a blow  in  her  life. 

But,  her  courage  wras  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it  brought  the  irrepressible 
tears  into  her  eyes.  This  was  a courage  that  Madame  Defarge  so  little  compre- 
hended as  to  mistake  for  weakness.  “ Ha,  ha  ! ” she  laughed,  “ you  poor  wretch  ! 
What  are  you  worth  ! I address  myself  to  that  Doctor.”  Then  she  raised  her 
voice  and  called  out,  “ Citizen  Doctor  ! Wife  of  Evremonde  ! Child  of  Evre- 
monde  ! Any  person  but  this  miserable  fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  Defarge  ! ” 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent  disclosure  in  the  expression 
of  Miss  Pross’s  face,  perhaps  a sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion, 
whispered  to  Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone.  Three  of  the  doors  she 
opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 

“Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been  hurried  packing,  there  are 
odds  and  ends  upon  the  ground.  There  is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you ! Let 
me  look.” 

“ Never ! ” said  Miss  Pross,  who  understood  the  request  as  perfectly  as  Madame 
Defarge  understood  the  answer. 

“If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and  can  be  pursued  and  brought 
back,”  said  Madame  Defarge  to  herself. 

“ As  long  as  you  don’t  know  whether  they  are  in  that  room  or  not,  you  are 
uncertain  what  to  do,”  said  Miss  Pross  to  herself ; “ and  you  shall  not  know  that, 
if  I can  prevent  your  knowing  it ; and  know  that,  or  not  know  that,  you  shall  not 
leave  here  while  I can  hold  you.” 

“I  have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing  has  stopped  me,  I will  tear 
you  to  pieces,  but  I will  have  you  from  that  door,”  said  Madame  Defarge. 

“We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a high  house  in  a solitary  court-yard,  we  are  not 
likely  to  be  heard,  and  I pray  for  bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every 
minute  you  are  here  is  worth  a hundred  thousand  guineas  to  my  darling,”  said 
Miss  Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.  Miss  Pross,  on  the  instinct  of  the  moment, 
seized  her  round  the  waist  in  both  her  arms,  and  held  her  tight.  It  was  in  vain 
for  Madame  Defarge  to  struggle  and  to  stiike ; Miss  Pross,  with  the  vigorous 
tenacity  of  love,  always  so  much  stronger  than  hate,  clasped  her  tight,  and  even 
lifted  her  from  the  floor  in  the  struggle  that  they  had.  The  two  hands  of  Madame 
Defarge  buffeted  and  tore  her  face  ; but,  Miss  Pross,  with  her  head  down,  held 
her  round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her  with  more  than  the  hold  of  a drowning 
woman. 

Socn,  Madame  Defarge’s  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and  felt  at  her  encircled  waist. 
“It  is  under  my  arm,”  said  Miss  Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  “ you  shall  not  draw 
it.  I am  stronger  than  you,  I bless  Heaven  for  it.  I’ll  hold  you  till  ore  or  other 
of  us  faints  or  dies  ! ” 

Madame  Defarge’s  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss  Pross  looked  up,  saw  what 
it  was,  struck  at  it,  struck  out  a flash  and  a crash,  and  stood  alone—  blinded  with 
smoke. 

All  this  was  in  a second.  As  the  smoke  cleared,  leaving  an  awful  stillness,  it 
pessed  out  on  the  air,  like  the  soul  of  the  furious  woman  whose  body  lay  lifeless 
ud  the  ground. 

In  the  first  fright  and  horror  of  her  situation,  Miss  Pross  passed  the  body  as 


A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 


216 


far  from  it  as  she  could,  and  ran  down  the  stairs  to  call  for  fruitless  help.  Hap* 
pily,  she  bethought  herself  of  the  consequences  of  what  she  did,  in  time  to  check 
herself  and  go  back.  It  was  dreadful  to  go  in  at  the  door  again  ; but,  she  did  go 
in,  and  even  went  near  it,  to  get  the  bonnet  and  other  things  that  she  must  wear. 
These  she  put  on,  out  on  the  staircase,  first  shutting  and  locking  the  door  and 
taking  away  the  key.  She  then  sat  down  on  the  stairs  a few  moments  to  breathe 
and  to  cry,  and  then  got  up  and  hurried  away. 

By  good  fortune  she  had  a veil  on  her  bonnet,  or  she  could  hardly  have  gone 
along  the  streets  without  being  stopped.  By  good  fortune,  too,  she  was  naturally 
so  peculiar  in  appearance  as  not  to  show  disfigurement  like  any  other  woman. 
She  needed  both  advantages,  for  the  marks  of  griping  fingers  were  deep  in  her 
face,  and  her  hair  was  torn,  and  her  dress  (hastily  composed  with  unsteady  hands) 
was  clutched  and  dragged  a hundred  ways 

In  crossing  the  bridge,  she  dropped  the  door  key  in  the  river.  Arriving  at  the 
cathedral  some  few  minutes  before  her  escort,  and  waiting  there,  she  thought, 
what  if  the  key  were  already  taken  in  a net,  what  if  it  were  identified,  what  if  the 
door  were  opened  and  the  remains  discovered,  what  if  she  were  stopped  at  the 
gate,  sent  to  prison,  and  charged  with  murder ! In  the  midst  of  these  fluttering 
thoughts,  the  escort  appeared,  took  her  in,  and  took  her  away. 

“ Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  ?”  she  asked  him. 

“ The  usual  noises,”  Mr.  Cruncher  replied ; and  looked  surprised  by  the  question 
and  by  her  aspect. 

“ I don’t  hear  you,”  said  Miss  Pross.  “ What  do  you  say  ?” 

It  was  in  vain  for  Mr.  Cruncher  to  repeat  what  he  said ; Miss  Pross  could  not 
hear  him.  “ So  I’ll  nod  my  head,”  thought  Mr.  Cruncher,  amazed,  “ at  all  events 
she’ll  see  that.”  And  she  did. 

“ Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  now  ?”  asked  Miss  Pross  again,  presently. 

Again  Mr.  Cruncher  nodded  his  head. 

“ I don’t  hear  it.” 

“ Gone  deaf  in  a hour  ?”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ruminating,  with  his  mind  much 
disturbed  ; “ wot’s  come  to  her  ?” 

“I  feel,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “as  if  there  had  been  a flash  and  a crash,  and  that 
crash  was  the  last  thing  I should  ever  hear  in  this  life.” 

“Blest  if  she  ain’t  in  a queer  condition!”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  more  and  more 
disturbed.  “Wot  can  she  have  been  a talcin’,  to  keep  her  courage  up  ? Hark  ! 
There’s  the  roll  of  them  dreadful  carts  ! You  can  hear  that,  miss  ?” 

“ I can  hear,”  said  Miss  Pross,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to  her,  “ nothing.  O,  my 
good  man,  there  was  first  a great  crash,  and  then  a great  stillness,  and  that  still* 
ness  seems  to  be  fixed  and  unchangeable,  never  to  be  broken  any  more  as  long  as 
my  life  lasts.” 

“ If  she  don’t  hear  the  roll  of  those  dreadful  carts,  now  very  nigh  their  journey’s 
end,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  “ it’s  my  opinion  that  indeed 
»he  never  will  hear  anything  else  in  this  world.” 

And  indeed  she  never  did. 


At  the  foot  of  Guillotine . 


117 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOR  EVER. 

Along  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble,  hollow  and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils 
carry  the  day’s  wine  to  La  Guillotine.  All  the  devouring  and  insatiate  Monsters 
imagined  since  imagination  could  record  itself,  are  fused  in  the  one  realisation, 
Guillotine.  And  yet  there  is  not  in  France,  with  its  rich  variety  of  soil  and 
climate,  a blade,  a leaf,  a root,  a sprig,  a peppercorn,  which  will  grow  to  maturity 
under  conditions  more  certain  than  those  that  have  produced  this  horror.  Crush 
humanity  out  of  shape  once  more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it  will  twist  itself 
into  the  same  tortured  forms.  Sow  the  same  seed  of  rapacious  license  and  oppres- 
sion over  again,  and  it  will  surely  yield  the  same  fruit  according  to  its  kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change  these  back  again  to  what  they 
were,  thou  powerful  enchanter,  Time,  and  they  shall  be  seen  to  be  the  carriages 
of  absolute  monarchs,  the  equipages  of  feudal  nobles,  the  toilettes  of  flaring 
Jezabels,  the  churches  that  are  not  my  father’s  house  but  dens  of  thieves,  the  huts 
of  millions  of  starving  peasants  ! No ; the  great  magician  who  majestically  works 
out  the  appointed  order  of  the  Creator,  never  reverses  his  transformations.  “ If 
thou  be  changed  into  this  shape  by  the  will  of  God,”  say  the  seers  to  the 
enchanted,  in  the  wise  Arabian  stories,  “ then  remain  so  ! But,  if  thou  wear  this 
form  through  mere  passing  conjuration,  then  resume  thy  former  aspect  1”  Change- 
less and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they  seem  to  plough  up  a long 
crooked  furrow  among  the  populace  in  the  streets.  Ridges  of  faces  are  thrown 
to  this  side  and  to  that,  and  the  ploughs  go  steadily  onward.  So  used  are  the 
regular  inhabitants  of  the  houses  to  the  spectacle,  that  in  many  windows  there  are 
no  people,  and  in  some  the  occupation  of  the  hands  is  not  so  much  as  suspended, 
while  the  eyes  survey  the  faces  in  the  tumbrils.  Here  and  there,  the  inmate  has 
visitors  to  see  the  sight ; then  he  points  his  finger,  with  something  of  the  com- 
placency of  a curator  or  authorised  exponent,  to  this  cart  and  to  this,  and  seems  to 
tell  who  sat  here  yesterday,  and  who  there  the  day  before. 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe  these  things,  and  all  things  on  their 
last  roadside,  with  an  impassive  stare ; others,  with  a lingering  interest  in  the 
ways  of  life  and  men.  Some,  seated  with  drooping  heads,  are  sunk  in  silent 
despair ; again,  there  are  some  so  heedful  of  their  looks  that  they  cast  upon  the 
multitude  such  glances  as  they  have  seen  in  theatres,  and  in  pictures,  Several 
close  their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to  get  their  straying  thoughts  together.  Only 
one,  and  he  a miserable  creature,  of  a crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made 
drurk  by  horror,  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to  dance.  Not  one  of  the  whole  number 
appeals  by  look  or  gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the  people. 

There  is  a guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast  of  the  tumbrils,  and  faces 
are  often  turned  up  to  some  of  them,  and  they  are  asked  some  question.  It 
would  seem  to  be  always  the  same  question,  for,  it  is  always  followed  by  a press 
of  people  towards  the  third  cart.  The  horsemen  abreast  of  that  cart,  frequently 
point  out  one  man  in  it  with  their  swords.  The  leading  curiosity  is,  to  know 
which  is  he ; he  stands  at  the  back  of  the  tumbril  writh  his  head  bent  down,  to 
converse  with  a mere  girl  who  sits  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  holds  his  hand. 
He  has  no  curiosity  or  care  for  the  scene  about  him,  and  always  speaks  to  the 
girl.  Here  and  there  in  the  long  street  of  St.  Honore,  cries  are  raised  against 
him.  If  they  move  him  at  all,  it  is  only  to  a quiet  smile,  as  be  shakes  his  hair  a 


2 1 8 A Tale  of  Two  Cities . 

*“  1 i ' -i  ■ w—m+mmmmmrn 

little  more  loosely  about  his  face.  He  cannot  easily  touch  his  face,  his  arms 
being  bound. 

On  the  steps  of  a church,  awaiting  the  coming-up  of  the  tumbrils,  stands  the 
Spy  and  prison-sheep.  He  looks  into  the  first  of  them  : not  there.  He  looks  into 
the  second  : not  there.  He  already  asks  himself,  “ Has  he  sacrificed  me  ? ” when 
his  face  clears,  as  he  looks  into  the  third. 

“Which  is  Evremonde  ?”  says  a man  behind  him. 

“ That.  At  the  back  there.” 

“ With  his  hand  in  the  girl’s  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The  man  cries,  “ Down,  Evremonde  ! To  the  Guillotine  all  aristocrats  ! Down, 
Evremonde ! ” 

“ Hush,  hush ! ” the  Spy  entreats  him,  timidly. 

“ And  why  not,  citizen  ? ” 

“ He  is  going  to  pay  the  forfeit : it  will  be  paid  in  five  minutes  more.  Let  him 
be  at  peace.” 

But  the  man  continuing  to  exclaim,  “ Down,  Evremonde ! ” the  face  of  Evre- 
monde is  for  a moment  turned  towards  him.  Evremonde  then  sees  the  Spy,  and 
looks  attentively  at  him,  and  goes  his  way. 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the  furrow  ploughed  among  the 
populace  is  turning  round,  to  come  on  into  the  place  of  execution,  and  end.  The 
ridges  thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that,  now  crumble  in  and  close  behind  the  last 
plough  as  it  passes  on,  for  all  are  following  to  the  Guillotine.  In  front  of  it,  seated 
in  chairs,  as  in  a garden  of  public  diversion,  are  a number  of  women,  busily 
knitting.  On  one  of  the  foremost  chairs,  stands  The  Vengeance,  looking  about  for 
her  friend. 

“ Therese  ! ” she  cries,  in  her  shrill  tones.  “Who  has  seen  her  ? Th$r&se 
Defarge ! ” 

“ She  never  missed  before,”  says  a knitting-woman  of  the  sisterhood. 

“ No  ; nor  will  she  miss  now,”  cries  The  Vengeance,  petulantly.  “ Therese.” 

“ Louder,”  the  woman  recommends. 

Ay ! Louder,  Vengeance,  much  louder,  and  still  she  will  scarcely  hear  thee. 
Louder  yet,  Vengeance,  with  a little  oath  or  so  added,  and  yet  it  will  hardly  bring 
her.  Send  other  women  up  and  down  to  seek  her,  lingering  somewhere ; and 
yet,  although  the  messengers  have  done  dread  deeds,  it  is  questionable  whether  of 
their  own  wills  they  will  go  far  enough  to  find  her ! 

“ Bad  Fortune  ! ” cries  The  Vengeance,  stamping  her  foot  in  the  chair,  “ and 
here  are  the  tumbrils  ! And  Evremonde  will  be  despatched  in  a wink,  and  she 
not  here  ! See  her  knitting  in  my  hand,  and  her  empty  chair  ready  for  her.  I 
cry  with  vexation  and  disappointment ! ” 

As  The  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation  to  do  it,  the  tumbrils  begin  to 
discharge  their  loads.  The  ministers  of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready. 
Clash  ! — A head  is  held  up,  and  the  knitting- women  who  scarcely  lifted  their  eyes 
Vo  look  at  it  a moment  ago  when  it  could  think  and  speak,  count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on  ; the  third  comes  up.  Crash ! 
— And  the  knitting-women,  never  faltering  or  pausing  in  their  work,  count 
Two. 

The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the  seamstress  is  lifted  out  next  after 
him.  He  has  not  relinquished  her  patient  hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as 
he  promised.  He  gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the  crashing  engine  that  con- 
stantly chirrs  up  and  falls,  and  she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

“ But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I should  not  be  so  composed,  for  I am  naturally  a 
pool  Vttle  thing,  faint  of  heart ; nor  should  I have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts 


Expiation.  1 1 9 

to  Him  who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope  and  comfort  here  to-day. 
I think  you  were  sent  to  me  by  Heaven.” 

“ Or  you  to  me,”  says  Sydney  Carton.  44  Keep  your  eyes  upon  me,  dear  child, 
and  mind  no  other  object.” 

“ I mind  nothing  while  I hold  your  hand.  I shall  mind  nothing  when  I let  it 
go,  if  they  are  rapid.” 

“ They  will  be  rapid.  Fear  not ! ” 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of  victims,  but  they  speak  as  if  they 
were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice  to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  these  two 
cnildren  of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing,  have  come 
together  on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home  together,  and  to  rest  in  her 
bosom. 

44  Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  one  last  question  ? I am 
very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles  me — just  a little.” 

44  Tell  me  what  it  is.”  # 

44 1 have  a cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like  myself,  whom  I love  very 
dearly.  She  is  five  years  younger  than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a farmer’s  house  in  the 
south  country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  my  fate — for  I can- 
not write — and  if  I could,  how  should  I tell  her ! It  is  better  as  it  is.” 

44  Yes,  yes  : better  as  it  is.” 

44  What  I have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and  what  I am  still  thinking 
now,  as  I look  into  your  kind  strong  face  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is 
this : — If  the  Republic  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they  come  to  be  less 
hungry,  and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less,  she  may  live  a long  time  : she  may  even 
live  to  be  old.” 

44  What  then,  my  gentle  sister  ?” 

44  Do  you  think  : ” the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which  there  is  so  much  endurance, 
fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips  part  a little  more  and  tremble  : 44  that  it  will  seem  long 
to  me,  while  I wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I trust  both  you  and  I will  be 
mercifully  sheltered  ? ” 

44  It  cannot  be,  my  child  ; there  is  no  Time  there,  and  no  trouble  there.” 

44  You  comfort  me  so  much ! I am  so  ignorant.  Am  I to  kiss  you  now  ? Is 
the  moment  come  ? ” 

44  Yes.” 

She  kisses  his  lips ; he  kisses  hers  ; they  solemnly  bless  each  other.  The  spare 
hand  does  not  tremble  as  he  releases  it ; nothing  worse  than  a sweet,  bright  con- 
stancy is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him — is  gone ; the  knitting- 
women  count  Twenty-Two. 

44 1 am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord : he  that  believeth  in  me, 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  : and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me 
shall  never  die.” 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of  many  faces,  the  pressing  on 
of  many  footsteps  in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  so  that  P swells  forward  in  a mass, 
like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty-Three. 

They  said  of  him,  about  the  city  that  night,  that  it  was  the  peacefullest  man’s 
face  ever  beheld  there.  Many  added  that  he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  sufferers  by  the  same  axe — a woman — had  asked  at 
the  foot  of  the  same  scaffold,  not  long  before,  to  be  allowed  to  write  down  the 
thoughts  that  were  inspiring  her.  If  he  had  given  any  utterance  to  his,  and  they 
were  prophetic,  they  would  have  been  these  : 

44 1 see  Barsad,  and  Cly,  Defarge,  The  Vengeance,  the  Juryman,  the  Judge, 
long  ranks  of  the  new  oppressors  who  have  risen  on  the  destruction  of  the  old, 


220 


A Tale  of  Two  Cittes. 


perishing  by  this  retributive  instrument,  before  it  shall  cease  out  of  its  present  use. 
I see  a beautiful  city  and  a brilliant  people  rising  from  this  abyss,  and,  in  their 
struggles  to  be  truly  free,  in  their  triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long  long  years 
to  come,  I see  the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the  previous  time  of  which  this  is  the 
natural  birth,  gradually  making  expiation  for  itself  and  wearing  out. 

“I  see  the  lives  for  which  I lay  down  my  life,  peaceful,  useful,  prosperous  and 
happy,  in  that  England  which  I shall  see  no  more.  I see  Her  with  a child  upon 
her  bosom,  who  bears  my  name.  I see  her  father,  aged  and  bent,  but  otherwise 
restored,  and  faithful  to  all  men  in  his  healing  office,  and  at  peace.  I see  the 
good  old  man,  so  long  their  friend,  in  ten  years’  time  enriching  them  with  all  he 
has,  and  passing  tranquilly  to  his  reward. 

“I  see  that  I hold  a sanctuary  in  their  hearts,  and  in  the  hearts  of  their  des- 
cendants, generations  hence.  I see  her,  an  old  woman,  weeping  for  me  on  the 
anniversary  of  this  day.  I see  her  and  her  husband,  their  course  done,  lying  side 
by  side  in  their  last  earthly  bed,  and  I know  that  each  was  not  more  honoured  and 
held  sacred  in  the  other’s  soul,  than  I was  in  the  souls  of  both. 

“ I see  that  child  who  lay  upon  her  bosom  and  who  bore  my  name,  a man 
winning  his  way  up  in  that  path  of  life  which  once  was  mine.  I see  him  winning 
it  so  well,  that  my  name  is  made  illustrious  there  by  the  light  of  his.  I see  the 
blots  I threw  upon  it,  faded  away.  I see  him,  foremost  of  just  judges  and 
honoured  men,  bringing  a boy  of  my  name,  with  a forehead  that  I know  and 
golden  hair,  to  this  place — then  fair  to  look  upon,  with  not  a trace  of  this  day’s 
disfigurement — and  I hear  him  tell  the  child  my  story,  with  a tender  and  a falter- 
faig  voice. 

“It  is  a far,  far  better  thing  that  I do,  than  I have  ever  done;  it  is  a fa*,  fat 
better  rest  that  I go  to,  than  I have  ever  knowA.” 


GREA1 


EXPECTATIONS. 


AFFECTIONS  TE~V  INSCRIBED 


CHAUNCY  HARE  TOYVNSHEND. 


GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

My  father’s  family  name  being  Pirrip,  and  my  christain  name  Philip,  my  infant 
tongue  could  make  of  both  names  nothing  longer  or  more  explicit  than  Pip.  So, 
I called  myself  Pip,  and  came  to  be  called  Pip. 

I give  Pirrip  as  my  father’s  family  name,  on  the  authority  of  his  tombstone  and 
lny  sister — Mrs.  Joe  Gargery,  who  married  the  blacksmith.  As  I never  saw  my 
rather  or  my  mother,  and  never  saw  any  likeness  of  either  of  them  (for  their  days  were 
long  before  the  days  of  photographs),  my  first  fancies  regarding  what  they  were 
iiKe,  wrere  unreasonably  derived  from  their  tombstones.  The  shape  of  the  letters 
vn  my  father’s,  gave  me  an  odd  idea  that  he  was  a square,  stout,  dark  man,  with 
curly  black  hair.  From  the  character  and  turn  of  the  inscription,  “ Also  Georgiana 
Wife  of  the  Above”  I drew  a childish  conclusion  that  my  mother  was  freckled 
and  sickly.  To  five  little  stone  lozenges,  each  about  a foot  and  a half  long,  which 
Were  arranged  in  a neat  row  beside  their  grave,  and  were  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
five  little  brothers  of  mine — who  gave  up  trying  to  get  a living  exceedingly  early 
in  that  universal  struggle — I am  indebted  for  a belief  I religiously  entertained  that 
they  had  all  been  born  on  their  backs  with  their  hands  in  their  trousers-pockets,  and 
had  never  taken  them  out  in  this  state  of  existence. 

Ours  was  the  marsh  country,  down  by  the  river,  within,  as  the  river  wound, 
twenty  miles  of  the  sea.  My  first  most  vivid  and  broad  impression  of  the  identity 
of  things,  seems  to  me  to  have  been  gained  on  a memorable  raw  afternoon  towards 
evening.  At  such  a time  I found  out  for  certain,  that  this  bleak  place  overgrown 
with  nettles  was  the  churchyard  ; and  that  Philip  Pirrip,  late  of  this  parish,  and 
e,iso  Georgiana  wife  of  the  above,  were  dead  and  buried  ; and  that  Alexander, 
Bartholomew,  Abraham,  Tobias,  and  Roger,  infant  children  of  the  aforesaid,  were 
also  dead  and  buried  ; and  that  the  dark  flat  wilderness  beyond  the  churchyard, 
intersected  with  dykes  and  mounds  and  gates,  with  scattered  cattle  feeding  on  it, 
was  the  marshes  ; and  that  the  low  leaden  line  beyond  was  the  river ; and  that  the 
distant  savage  lair  from  which  the  wind  was  rushing,  was  the  sea ; and  that  the 
small  bundle  of  shivers  growing  afraid  of  it  all  and  beginning  to  cry,  was  Pip. 

“ Hold  your  noise ! ” cried  a terrible  voice,  as  a man  started  up  from  among  the 
graves  at  the  side  of  the  church  porch.  “ Keep  still,  you  little  devil,  or  I’jJ  ml 
your  throat ! 99 


226 


Great  Expectations . 


A fearful  man,  all  in  coarse  grey,  with  a great  iron  on  his  leg.  A man  with  no 
hat,  and  with  broken  shoes,  and  with  an  old  rag  tied  round  his  head.  A man 
who  had  been  soaked  in  water,  and  smothered  in  mud,  and  lamed  by  stones,  and 
cut  by  flints,  and  stung  by  nettles,  and  torn  by  briars  ; who  limped,  and  shivered, 
and  glared  and  growled ; and  whose  teeth  chattered  in  his  head  as  he  seized  me 
by  the  chin. 

“O!  Don't  cut  my  throat,  sir,”  I pleaded  in  terror.  “Pray  don’t  do  it, 

sir.” 

“ Tell  us  your  name  ! ” said  the  man.  “ Quick ! ” 

“ Pip,  sir.” 

“ Once  more,”  said  the  man,  staring  at  me.  “ Give  it  mouth  !** 

“Pip.  Pip,  sir.” 

“ Show  us  where  you  live,”  said  the  man.  “ Pint  out  the  place ! ” 

I pointed  to  where  our  village  lay,  on  the  flat  in-shore  among  the  alder-trees 
d pollards,  a mile  or  more  from  the  church. 

The  man,  after  looking  at  me  for  a moment,  turned  me  upside  down,  and 
emptied  my  pockets.  There  was  nothing  in  them  but  a piece  of  bread.  When 
the  church  came  to  itself — for  he  was  so  sudden  and  strong  that  he  made  it  go 
head  over  heels  before  me,  and  I saw  the  steeple  under  my  feet — when  the  church 
came  to  itself,  I say,  I was  seated  on  a high  tombstone,  trembling,  while  he  ate 
the  bread  ravenously. 

“You  young  dog,”  said  the  man,  licking  his  lips,  “what  fat  cheeks  you  ha’ 
got.” 

I believe  they  were  fat,  though  I was  at  that  time  undersized,  for  my  years,  and 
not  strong. 

“ Darn  Me  if  I couldn’t  eat  em,”  said  the  man,  with  a threatening  shake  of  his 
head,  “ and  if  I han’t  half  a mind  to’t ! ” 

I earnestly  expressed  my  hope  that  he  wouldn’t,  and  held  tighter  to  the  tomb- 
stone on  which  he  had  put  me  ; partly,  to  keep  myself  upon  it ; partly,  to  keep 
myself  from  crying. 

“Now  lookee  here  ! ” said  the  man.  “ Where’s  your  mother  ? ” 

“ There,  sir  ! ” said  I. 

He  started,  made  a short  run,  and  stopped  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
“There,  sir!  ” I timidly  explained.  “ Also  Georgiana.  That’s  my  mother.” 
“Oh!”  said  he,  coming  back.  “And  is  that  your  father  alonger  your 
mother  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  I ; “him  too  ; late  of  this  parish.” 

“ Ha  ! ” he  mutteied  then,  considering.  “ Who  d’ye  live  with — supposin’ 
you’re  kindly  let  to  live,  which  I han’t  made  up  my  mind  about  ? ” 

“ My  sister,  sir — Mrs.  Joe  Gargery — wife  of  Joe  Gargery,  the  blacksmith,  sir.” 
“ Blacksmith,  eh  ? ” said  he.  And  looked  down  at  his  leg. 

After  darkly  looking  at  his  leg  and  at  me  several  times,  he  came  closer  to  my 
tombstone,  took  me  by  both  arms,  and  tilted  me  back  as  far  as  he  could  hold  me ; 
so  that  his  eyes  looked  most  powerfully  down  into  mine,  and  mine  looked  most 
helplessly  up  into  his. 

“Now  lookee  here,”  he  said,  “the  question  being  whether  you’re  to  be  let  to 
live.  You  know  what  a file  is  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“ And  you  know  what  wittles  is  ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

After  each  question  he  tilted  me  over  a little  more,  so  as  to  give  me  a greater 

sense  of  helplessness  and  danger. 

“ You  get  me  a file.”  He  tilted  me  again,  “ And  you  get  me  wittles.”  He 


I promise  to  get  what  the  Convict  wants . 


227 


tilted  me  again.  “You  bring  ’em  both  to  me.”  He  tilted  me  again.  “Or  I’ll 
have  your  heart  and  liver  out.”  He  tilted  me  again. 

I was  dreadfully  frightened,  and  so  giddy  that  I clung  to  him  with  both 
hands,  and  said,  “If  you  would  kindly  please  to  let  me  keep  upright,  sir,  perhaps 
I shouldn’t  be  sick,  and  perhaps  I could  attend  more.” 

He  gave  me  a most  tremendous  dip  and  roll,  so  that  the  church  jumped  over  its 
own  weather-cock.  Then,  he  held  me  by  the  arms  in  an  upright  position  011  the 
top  of  the  stone,  and  went  on  in  these  fearful  terms  : 

“You  bring  me,  to-morrow  morning  early,  that  file  and  them  wittles.  You 
bring  the  lot  to  me,  at  that  old  Battery  over  yonder.  You  do  it,  and  you  never 
dare  to  say  a word  or  dare  to  make  a sign  concerning  your  having  seen  such  a 
person  as  me,  or  any  person  sumever,  and  you  shall  be  let  to  live.  You  fail,  or  you 
go  from  my  words  in  any  partickler,  no  matter  how  small  it  is,  and  your  heart  and 
your  liver  shall  be  tore  out,  roasted  and  ate.  Now,  I ain’t  alone,  as  you  may 
think  I am.  There’s  a young  man  hid  with  me,  in  comparison  with  which,  young 
man  I am  a Angel.  That  young  man  hears  the  words  I speak.  That  young  man 
has  a secret  way  pecooliar  to  himself,  of  getting  at  a boy,  and  at  his  heart,  and  at 
his  liver.  It  is  in  wain  for  a boy  to  attempt  to  hide  himself  from  that  young  man. 
A boy  may  lock  his  door,  maybe  warm  in  bed,  may  tuck  himself  up,  may  draw  the 
clothes  over  his  head,  may  think  himself  comfortable  and  safe,  but  that  young  man 
will  softly  creep  and  creep  his  way  to  him  and  tear  him  open.  I am  a keeping  that 
young  man  from  harming  of  you  at  the  present  moment,  with  great  difficulty.  ] find 
it  wery  hard  to  hold  that  young  man  off  of  your  inside.  Now,  what  do  you  say  P ” 

I said  that  I would  get  him  the  file,  and  I would  get  him  what  broken  bits  of 
food  I could,  and  I would  come  to  him  at  the  Battery,  early  in  the  morning. 

“ Say,  Lord  strike  you  dead  if  you  don’t ! ” said  the  man. 

I said  so,  and  he  took  me  down. 

“ Now,”  he  pursued,  “ you  remember  what  you’ve  undertook,  and  you  remem- 
ber that  young  man,  and  you  get  home ! ” 

“ Goo-good  night,  sir,”  I faltered. 

“Much  of  that ! ” said  he,  glancing  about  him  over  the  cold  wet  flat.  “ I wish 
I was  a frog.  Or  a eel ! ” 

At  the  same  time,  he  hugged  his  shuddering  body  in  both  his  arms — clasping 
himself,  as  if  to  hold  himself  together — and  limped  towards  the  low  church  wall. 
As  I saw  him  go,  picking  his  way  among  the  nettles,  and  among  the  brambles 
that  bound  the  green  mounds,  he  looked  in  my  young  eyes  as  if  he  were  eluding 
the  hands  of  the  dead  people,  stretching  up  cautiously  out  of  their  graves,  to  get 
a twist  upon  his  ankle  and  pull  him  in. 

When  he  came  to  the  low  church  wall,  he  got  over  it,  like  a man  whose  legs 
were  numbed  and  stiff,  and  then  turned  round  to  look  for  me.  When  I saw  him 
turning,  I set  my  face  towards  home,  and  made  the  best  use  of  my  legs.  But 
presently  I looked  over  my  shoulder,  and  saw  him  going  on  again  towards  the 
liver,  still  hugging  himself  in  both  arms,  and  picking  his  way  with  his  sore  feet 
among  the  great  stones  dropped  into  the  marshes  here  and  there,  for  stepping- 
places  when  the  rains  were  heavy,  or  the  tide  was  in. 

The  marshes  were  just  a long  black  horizontal  line  then,  as  I stopped  to  look 
after  him  ; and  the  river  was  just  another  horizontal  line,  not  nearly  so  broad  nor 
yet  so  black ; and  the  sky  was  just  a row  of  long  angry  red  lines  and  dense  black 
lines  intermixed.  On  the  edge  of  the  river  I could  faintly  make  out  the  only  two 
black  things  in  all  the  prospect  that  seemed  to  be  standing  upright ; one  of  these 
was  the  beacon  by  which  the  sailors  steered — like  an  unhooped  cask  upon  a pole — 
an  ugly  thing  when  you  were  near  it ; the  other  a gibbet,  with  some  chains  hang- 
ing tc  it  which  had  once  held  a pirate.  The  man  was  limping  on  towards  thii 


228 


Great  Expectations . 


latter,  as  if  he  were  the  pirate  come  to  life,  and  come  down,  and  going  hack  to 
hook  himself  up  again.  It  gave  me  a terrible  turn  when  I thought  so  ; and  as  I 
saw  the  cattle  lifting  their  heads  to  gaze  after  him,  I wondered  whether  they 
thought  so  too.  1 looked  all  round  for  the  horrible  young  man,  and  could  see  no 
signs  of  him.  But  now  I was  frightened  again,  and  ran  home  without  stopping. 


CHAPTER  II. 

My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe  Gargery,  was  more  than  twenty  years  older  than  I,  and  had 
established  a great  reputation  with  herself  and  the  neighbours  because  she  had 
brought  me  up  “by  hand.”  Having  at  that  time  to  find  out  for  myself  what  the 
expression  meant,  and  knowing  her  to  have  a hard  and  heavy  hand,  and  to  be 
much  in  the  habit  of  laying  it  upon  her  husband  as  well  as  upon  me,  I supposed 
that  Joe  Gargery  and  I were  both  brought  up  by  hand. 

She  was  not  a good-looking  woman,  my  sister ; and  I had  a general  impression 
that  she  must  have  made  Joe  Gargery  marry  her  by  hand.  Joe  was  a fair  man, 
with  curls  of  flaxen  hair  on  each  side  of  his  smooth  face,  and  with  eyes  of  such  a 
veiy  undecided  blue  that  they  seemed  to  have  somehow  got  mixed  with  their  own 
whites.  He  was  a mild,  good-natured,  sweet-tempered,  easy-going,  foolish,  dear 
fellow — a sort  of  Hercules  in  strength,  and  also  in  weakness. 

My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe,  with  black  hair  and  eyes,  had  such  a prevailing  redness  of 
skin,  that  I sometimes  used  to  wonder  whether  it  was  possible  she  washed  her- 
self with  a nutmeg-grater  instead  of  soap.  - She  was  tall  and  bony,  and  almost 
always  wore  a coarse  apron, -fastened  over  her  figure  behind  with  two  loops,  and 
having  a square  impregnable  bib  in  front,  that  was  stuck  full  of  pins  and  needles. 
She  made  it  a powerful  merit  in  herself,  and  a stiong  reproach  against  Joe,  that 
she  wore  this  apron  so  much.  Though  I really  see  no  reason  why  she  should 
have  worn  it  at  all : or  why,  if  she  did  wear  it  at  all,  she  should  not  have  taken 
it  off  every  day  of  her  life. 

Joe’s  forge  adjoined  our  house,  which  was  a wooden  house,  as  many  of  the 
dwellings  in  our  country  were— most  of  them,  at  that  time.  When  I ran  home 
from  the  churchyard,  the  forge  was  shut  up,  and  Joe  was  sitting  alone  in  the 
kitchen.  Joe  and  I being  fellow-sufferers,  and  having  confidences  as  such,  Joe 
imparted  a confidence  to  me,  the  moment  I raised  the  latch  of  the  door  and 
peeped  in  at  him  opposite  to  it,  sitting  in  the  chimney  corner. 

“Mrs.  Joe  has  been  out  a dozen  times,  looking  for  you,  Pip.  And  she’s  out 
now,  making  it  a baker’s  dozen.” 

“Is  she?” 

“Yes,  Pip,”  said  Joe  ; “ and  what’s  worse,  she’s  got  Tickler  with  her.” 

At  this  dismal  intelligence,  I twisted  the  only  button  on  my  waistcoat  round  and 
round,  and  looked  in  great  depression  at  the  fire.  Tickler  was  a wax-ended  piece 
of  cane,  worn  smooth  by  collision  with  my  tickled  frame. 

“ She  sot  down,”  said  Joe,  “ and  she  got  up,  and  she  made  a grab  at  Tickler, 
and  she  Ram-paged  out.  That’s  what  she  did,”  said  Joe,  slowly  clearing  the 
fire  between  the  lower  bars  with  the  poker,  and  looking  at  it : “ she  Ram-paged 
out,  Pip.” 

“ lias  she  been  gone  long,  Joe  ? ” I always  treated  him  as  a larger  species  oi 
child,  and  as  no  more  than  my  equal. 

“ Well,”  said  Joe,  glancing  up  at  the  Dutch  clock,  “she’s  been  on  the  Ram- 
page, this  last  spell,  about  five  minutes,  Pip.  She’s  a-coming ! Get  behind  the 
Joor,  old  chap,  and  have  the  jA k- towel  betwixt  you.” 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joe  and  1. 


229 


I took  the  advice.  My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe,  throwing  the  door  wide  open,  and 
finding  an  obstruction  behind  it,  immediately  divined  the  cause,  and  applied 
Tickler  to  its  further  investigation.  She  concluded  b}  throwing  me — I often 
served  as  a connubial  missile — at  Joe,  who,  glad  to  get  held  of  me  on  any  terms, 
passed  me  on  into  the  chimney  and  quietly  fenced  me  up  there  with  his  great  leg. 

‘‘  Where  have  you  been,  you  young  monkey  ? ” said  Mrs.  Joe,  stamping  her 
foot.  “ Tell  me  directly  what  you’ve  been  doing  to  wear  me  away  with  fret  and 
fright  and  worrit,  or  I’d  have  you  out  of  that  corner  if  you  was  fifty  Pips,  and  he 
was  five  hundred  Gargerys.” 

“ I have  only  been  to  the  churchyard,”  said  I,  from  my  stool,  crying  and  rubbing 
myself. 

“ Churchyard  ! ” repeated  my  sister.  “ If  it  warn’t  for  me  you’d  have  been  to 
the  churchyard  long  ago,  and  stayed  there.  Who  brought  you  up  by  hand  ? ” 

“ You  did,”  said  I. 

“ And  why  did  I do  it,  I should  like  to  know  ? ” exclaimed  my  sister. 

I whimpered,  “ I don’t  know.” 

“/don’t!”  said  my  sister.  “I’d  never  do  it  again!  I know  that.  I may 
truly  say  I’ve  never  had  this  apron  of  mine  off,  since  bom  you  were.  It’s  bad 
enough  to  be  a blacksmith’s  wife  (and  him  a Gargery),  without  being  your 
mother.” 

My  thoughts  strayed  from  that  question  as  I looked  disconsolately  at  the  fire. 
For,  the  fugitive  out  on  the  marshes  with  the  ironed  leg,  the  mysterious  young 
man.  the  file,  the  food,  and  the  dreadful  pledge  I was  under  to  commit  a larcem 
on  those  sheltering  premises,  rose  before  me  in  the  avenging  coals. 

“ Hah  !”  said  Mrs.  Joe,  restoring  Tickler  to  his  station.  “ Churchyard,  indeed  ! 
You  may  well  say  churchyard,  you  two.”  One  of  us,  by-the-bve,  had  not  said  it  at 
all.  “ You’ll  drive  me  to  the  churchyard  betwixt  you,  one  of  these  days,  and  oh, 
a pr-r-recious  pair  you’d  be  without  me  ! ” 

As  she  appl'ed  herself  to  set  the  tea-things,  Joe  peeped  down  at  me  over  his  leg, 
as  if  he  were  mentally  casting  me  and  himself  up,  and  calculating  what  kind  of  pair 
we  practically  should  make,  under  the  grievous  circumstances  foreshadowed. 
After  that,  he  sat  feeling  his  right-side  flaxen  curls  and  whisker,  and  following  Mrs. 
Joe  about  with  his  blue  eyes,  as  his  manner  always  was  at  squally  times. 

My  sister  had  a trenchant  way  of  cutting  our  bread-and-butter  for  us,  that  never 
varied.  First,  with  her  left  hand  she  jammed  the  loaf  hard  and  fast  against  her  bib — 
where  it  sometimes  got  a pin  into  it,  and  sometimes  a needle,  which  we  afterwards 
got  into  our  mouths.  Then  she  took  some  butter  (not  too  much)  on  a knife  and 
spread  it  on  the  loaf,  in  an  apothecary  kind  of  way,  as  if  she  were  making  a plaister 
— using  both  sides  of  the  knife  with  a slapping  dexterity,  and  trimming  and 
moulding  the  butter  off  round  the  crust.  Then,  she  gave  the  knife  a final  smart 
wipe  on  the  edge  of  the  plaister,  and  then  sawed  a very  thick  round  off  the  loaf: 
which  she  finally,  before  separating  from  the  loaf,  hewed  into  two  halves,  of  which 
Joe  got  one,  and  I the  other. 

On  the  present  occasion,  though  I was  hungry,  I dared  not  eat  my  slice.  I felt 
that  I must  have  something  in  reserve  for  my  ^dreadful  acquaintance,  and  his  ally 
the  still  more  dreadful  young  man.  I knew  Mrs.  Joe’s  housekeeping  to  be  of  the 
strictest  kind,  and  that  my  larcenous  researches  might  find  nothing  available  in  the 
safe.  Therefore  I resolved  to  put  my  hunk  of  bread-and-butter  down  the  leg  of  my 
trousers. 

The  effort  of  resolution  necessary  to  the  achievement  of  this  purpose,  I found  to 
be  quite  awful.  It  was  as  if  I had  to  make  up  my  mind  to  leap  from  the  top  of 
a high  house,  or  plunge  into  a great  depth  of  water.  And  it  was  made  the  more 
difficult  by  the  unconscious  Joe.  In  our  aheady-mentioned  freemasonry  as  fellow* 


230 


Great  Expectations . 

sufferers,  and  in  his  good-natured  companionship  with  me,  it  was  our  evenin  g hsbif 
to  compare  the  way  we  bit  through  our  slices,  by  silently  holding  them  up  to  each 
other’s  admiration  now  and  then — which  stimulated  us  to  new  exertions.  To-nigln, 
Joe  several  times  invited  me,  by  the  display  of  his  fast-diminishing  slice,  to  enter 
upon  our  usual  friendly  competition  ; but  he  found  me,  each  time,  with  my  yellow 
mug  of  tea  on  one  knee,  and  my  untouched  bread-and-butter  on  the  other.  At 
last,  I desperately  considered  that  the  thing  I contemplated  must  be  done,  and  that 
it  had  best  be  done  in  the  least  improbable  manner  consistent  with  the  circum- 
stances. I took  advantage  of  a moment  when  Joe  had  just  looked  at  me,  and  got 
my  bread-and-butter  down  my  leg. 

Joe  was  evidently  made  uncomfortable  by  what  he  supposed  to  be  my  loss  of 
appetite,  and  took  a thoughtful  bite  out  of  his  slice,  which  he  didn’t  seem  to  enjoy. 
He  turned  it  about  in  his  mouth  much  longer  than  usual,  pondering  over  it  a good 
deal,  and  after  all  gulped  it  down  like  a pill.  He  was  about  to  take  another  bite, 
and  had  just  got  his  head  on  one  side  for  a good  purchase  on  it,  when  his  eye  fell 
on  me,  and  he  saw  that  my  bread-and-butter  was  gone. 

The  wonder  and  consternation  with  which  Joe  stopped  on  the  threshold  of  his 
bite  and  stared  at  me,  were  too  evident  to  escape  my  sister’s  observation. 

“ What’s  the  matter  now?  ” said  she,  smartly,  as  she  put  down  her  cup. 

“ I say,  you  know  ! ” muttered  Joe,  shaking  his  head  at  me  in  a very  serious  re- 
monstrance. “Pip,  old  chap  ! You’ll  do  yourself  a mischief.  It’ll  stick  some- 
where. You  can’t  have  chawed  it,  Pip.” 

“What’s  the  matter  now  ?”  repeated  my  sister,  more  sharply  than  before. 

“ If  you  can  cough  any  trifle  on  it  up,  Pip,  I’d  recommend  you  to  do  it,”  said 
Joe,  all  aghast.  “ Manners  is  manners,  but  still  your  elth ’s  your  elth.” 

By  this  time,  my  sister  was  quite  desperate,  so  she  pounced  on  Joe,  and,  taking 
him  by  the  two  whiskers,  knocked  his  head  for  a little  while  against  the  wall  be- 
hind him  : while  I sat  in  the  corner,  looking  guiltily  on. 

“ Now,  perhaps  you’ll  mention  what’s  th'e  matter,”  said  my  sister,  out  of  breath, 
“ you  staring  great  stuck  pig.” 

Joe  looked  at  her  in  a helpless  way  ; then  took  a helpless  bite,  and  leaked  at  me 
again. 

“ You  know,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  solemnly,  with  his  last  bite  in  his  cheek,  and  speak- 
ing in  a confidential  voice,  as  if  we  two  were  quite  alone,  “you  and  me  is 
always  friends,  and  I’d  be  the  last  to  tell  upon  you,  any  time.  But  such  a — ” he 
moved  his  chair,  and  looked  about  the  floor  between  us,  and  then  again  at  me — - 
“ such  a most  uncommon  bolt  as  that !” 

“Been  bolting  his  food,  has  he  ?”  cried  my  sister. 

“You  know,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  looking  at  me,  and  not  at  Mrs.  Joe,  with  his 
bite  still  in  his  cheek,  “ I Bolted,  myself,  when  I was  your  age — frequent — and  as 
a boy  I’ve  been  among  a many  Bolters ; but  I never  see  your  bolting  equal  yet, 
Pip,  and  it’s  a mercy  you  ain’t  Bolted  dead.” 

My  sister  made  a dive  at»me,  and  fished  me  up  by  the  hair : saying  notM»g  more 
than  the  awful  words,  “ You  come  along  and  be  dosed.” 

Some  medical  beast  had  revived  Tar-water  in  those  days  as  a fine  medicine, 
and  Mrs.  Joe  always  kept  a supply  of  it  in  the  cupboard  ; having  a belief  in  its 
virtues  correspondent  to  its  nastiness.  At  the  best  of  times,  so  much  of  this  elixir 
was  administered  tome  as  a choice  restorative,  that  I was  conscious  of  goingabout, 
smelling  like  a new  fence.  On  this  particular  evening,  the  urgency  of  my  case 
demanded  a pint  of  this  mixture,  which  was  poured  down  my  throat,  for  my  greater 
c'omfort,  while  Mrs.  Joe  held  my  head  under  her  arm,  as  a boot  would  be  held  in 
a boot-jack.  Joe  got  off  with  half  a pint ; but  was  made  to  swallow  that  (much  to  his 
disturbance*  as  he  sat  slowly  munching  and  meditating  before  the  fire),  “ because 


The  pursuit  of  Knowledge  under  difficulties . 231 

he  had  had  a turn.”  Judging  from  myself,  I should  say  he  certainly  had  a turn 
aftei  wards,  if  he  had  had  none  before. 

Conscience  is  a dreadful  thing  when  it  accuses  man  or  boy ; but  when,  in  the 
case  of  a boy,  that  secret  burden  co-operates  with  another  secret  burden  down  the 
leg  of  his  trousers,  it  is  (as  I can  testify)  a great  punishment.  The  guilty  know- 
ledge that  I was  going  to  rob  Mrs.  Joe — I never  thought  I was  going  to  rob  Joe, 
for  I never  thought  of  any  of  the  housekeeping  property  as  his — united  to  the 
necessity  of  always  keeping  on<  hand  on  my  bread-and-butter  as  I sat,  or  when  £ 
was  ordered  about  the  kitchen  on  any  small  errand,  almost  drove  me  out  of  my 
mind.  Then,  as  the  marsh  winds  made  the  fire  glow  and  flare,  I thought  1 heard 
the  voice  outside,  of  the  man  with  the  iron  on  his  leg  who  had  sworn  me  to  secrecy, 
declaring  that  he  couldn’t  and  wouldn’t  starve  until  to-morrow,  but  must  be  fed 
now.  At  other  times,  I thought,  What  if  the  young  man  who  was  with  so  much 
difficulty  restrained  from  imbruing  his  hands  in  me,  should  yield  to  a constitutional 
impatience,  or  saould  mistake  the  time,  and  should  think  himself  accredited  to  my 
heart  and  liver  to-night,  instead  of  to-morrow  i If  ever  anybody’s  hair  stood  on 
end  with  terror,  mine  must  have  done  so  then.  But,  perhaps,  nobody’s  ever  did  ? 

-It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  I had  to  stir  the  pudding  for  next  day,  with  a copper- 
stick,  from  seven  to  eight  by  the  Dutch  clock.  I tried  it  with  the  load  upon  my 
leg  (and  that  made  me  think  afresh  of  the  man  with  the  load  on  his  leg),  and 
found  the  tendency  of  exercise  to  bring  the  bread-and-butter  out  at  my  ankle, 
quite  unmanageable.  Happily  I slipped  away,  and  deposited  that  part  of  my  con- 
science in  my  garret  bedroom. 

“ Hark1”  said  I,  when  I had  done  my  stirring,  and  was  taking  a final  warm  in 
the  chimney  corner  before  being  sent  up  to  bed  ; “ was  that  great  guns,  Joe  ?” 

“ Ah  !”  said  Joe.  “ There’s  another  conwict  off.” 

“ What  does  fliat  mean,  Joe  ?”  said  I. 

Mrs.  Joe,  who  al  ways  took  explanations  upon  herself,  said  snappishly,  “ Escaped. 
Escaped.”  Administering  the  definition  like  Tar-water. 

While  Mrs.  Joe  srt  with  her  head  bending  over  her  needlework,  I put  my  mouth 
into  the  forms  of  say  it  g to  jGe,  <<  What’s  a convict  ?”  Joe  put  his  mouth  into  the 
forms  of  returning  such  a highly  elaborate  answer,  that  I could  make  out  nothing 
of  it  but  the  single  word,  Pip.” 

“ There  was  a conwict  oh]ast  night”  said  Joe,  aloud,  “ after  sunset-gun.  And 
they  fired  warning  of  him.  Aiq  now  it  appears  they’re  firing  warning  of  another.” 

“ Who's  firing?”  said  I. 

“Drat  that  boy,”  interposed  m*  sister,  frowning  at  me  over  her  work,  “ what  a 
questioner  he  is.  Ask  n»  question-^  anj  you’ll  be  told  no  lies.” 

It  was  not  very  polite  to  herself,  I th^ght,  to  imply  that  I should  be  told  lies  by  her, 
even  if  I did  ask  questions.  But  she  nevv,-  was  polite,  unless  there  was  company. 

At  this  point,  Joe  greatly  augmented  v>y  curiosity  by  taking  the  utmost  pains  to 
open  his  mouth  very  wide,  and  to  put  it  in0  the  form  of  a word  that  looked  to  me 
like  “sulks.”  Therefore,  I naturally  pointei  to  Mrs.  Joe,  and  put  my  mouth  into 
the  form  of  saying  “her  ?”  But  Joe  wouldn’t\ear  Qf  that  at  all,  and  again  opened 
his  mouth  very  wide,  and  shook  the  form  of  a host  emphatic  word  out  of  it.  But 
I could  make  nothing  of  the  word. 

“ Mrs.  Joe,”  said  I,  as  a last  resort,  “ I should',^  to  know — if  you  wouldn’t 
much  mind — where  the  firing  comes  from  ?” 

“ Lord  bless  the  boy  !”  exclaimed  my  sister,  as  if  didn’t  quite  mean  that« 
but  rather  the  contrary.  “ From  the  Hulks  !” 

“Oh-h  !”  said  I,  looking  at  Joe.  “ Hulks  !” 

Joe  gave  a reproachful  cough,  as  much  as  to  sayt  “Wei.  J told  you  so." 

“And  please  what’s  Hufks  ?”  said  I. 


232 


G re  at-  Expectations . 


“ That’s  the  way  with  this  boy  !”  exclaimed  my  sister,  pointing  me  out  with  her 
needle  and  thread,  and  shaking  her  head  at  me.  “ Answer  him  one  question,  and 
he’ll  ask  you  a dozen  directly.  Hulks  are  prison-ships,  right  ’cross  th’  meshes.” 
We  always  used  that  name  for  marshes  in  our  country. 

“ I wonder  who’s  put  into  prison-ships,  and  why  they’re  put  there?”  said  I,  in  a 
general  way,  and  with  quiet  desperation. 

It  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  -Joe,  who  immediately  rose.  “ I tell  you  what,  young 
fellow,”  said  she,  “ I didn’t  bring  you  up  by  hand  to  badger  people’s  lives  out.  It 
would  be  blame  to  me,  and  not  praise,  if  I had.  People  are  put  in  the  Hulks 
because  they  murder,  and  because  they  rob,  and  forge,  and  do  all  sorts  of  bad  ; and 
they  always  begin  by  asking  questions.  Now,  you  get  along  to  beci!” 

I was  never  allowed  a candle  to  light  me  to  bed,  and,  as  I went  upstairs  in  the 
dark,  with  my  head  tingling — from  Mrs.  Joe’s  thimble  having  played  the  tam- 
bourine upon  it,  to  accompany  her  last  words — I felt  fearfully  sensible  of  the  great 
convenience  that  the  hulks  were  handy  for  me.  I was  clearly  on  ftiy  way  there.  I 
had  begun  by  asking  questions,  and  I was  going  to  rob  Mrs.  JoeL 

Since  that  time,  which  is  far  enough  away  now,  I have  often  thought  that  few 
people  know  what  secrecy  there  is  in  the  young,  under  terror.  No  matter  how 
unreasonable  the  terror,  so  that  it  be  tenor.  I was  in  mortal  terror  of  the  young 
man  who  wanted  my  heart  and  liver  ; I was  in  mortal  terror  of  my  interlocutor 
with  the  iron  leg ; I was  in  mortal  terror  of  myself,  from  whom  an  awful  promise 
had  been  extracted  ; I had  no  hope  of  deliverance  through  my  all-powerful  sister, 
who  repulsed  me  at  every  turn  ; I am  afraid  to  think  of  what  I might  have  done 
on  requirement,  in  the  secrecy  of  my  terror. 

If  I slept  at  all  that  night,  it  was  only  to  imagine  myself  drifting  dawn  the  river 
on  a strong  spring-tide,  to  the  Hulks  ; a ghostly  pirate  calling  out  to  me  through 
d speaking-trumpet,  as  I passed  the  gibbet-station,  that  I had  better  come  ashore 
and  be  hanged  there  at  once,  and  not  put  it  off.  I was  afraid  to  sleep,  even  if  I 
had  been  inclined,  for  I knew  that  at  the  first  faint  dawn  of  morning  I must  rob  the 
pantry.  There  was  no  doing  it  in  the  night,  for  there  was  vO  getting  a light  by 
easy  friction  then  ; to  have  got  one,  I must  have  struck  it  orft  of  flint  and  steel,  and 
have  made  a noise  like  the  very  pirate  himself  rattling  his  chains. 

As  soon  as  the  great  black  velvet  pall  outside  my  lflde  window  was  shot  with 
grey,  I got  up  and  went  down  stairs  ; every  board  uudn  the  way,  and  every  crack 
in  every  board,  calling  after  me,  “ Stop  thief!”  and  “ Get  up,  Mrs.  Joe  !”  In  the 
pantiy,  which  was  far  more  abundantly  supplied  than  usual,  owing  to  the  season, 
I was  very  much  alarmed,  by  a hare  hanging  np  by  the  heels,  whom  I rather 
thought  I caught,  when  my  back  was  half  tvfned,  winking.  I had  no  time  for 
verification,  no  time  for  selection,  no  time  f/r  anything,  for  I had  no  time  to  spare. 
I stole  some  bread,  some  rind  of  cheese,  *bout  half  a jar  of  mincemeat  (which  I 
tied  up  in  my  pocket-handkerchief  with/ny  last  night’s  slice),  some  brandy  from  a 
stone  bottle  (which  I decanted  into  a glass  bottle  I had  secretly  used  for  making 
that  intoxicating-fluid,  Spanish-liquo/ice- water,  up  in  my  room  ; diluting  the  stone 
bottle  from  a jug  in  the  kitchen  cupboard),  a meat  bone  with  very  little  on  it,  and  a 
beautiful  round  compact  pork  pie,  I was  nearly  going  away  without  the  pie,  but 
I was  tempted  to  mount  upon  a shelf,  to  look  what  it  was  that  was  put  away  so 
carefully  in  a covered  earthenware  dish  in  a corner,  and  I found  it  was  the  pie,  and 
I took  it,  in  the  hope  that  it  was  not  intended  for  early  use,  and  would  not  be 
missed  for  some  time. 

There  was  a door  in  th*  kitchen  communicating  with  the  forge  ; I unlocked  and 
unbolted  that  door,  and  got  a file  from  among  Joe’s  tools.  Then  I put  the  fasten- 
ings as  I had  found  them,  opened  the  door  at  which  I had  entered  when  I ran 
Gome  last  night,  shutit,  and  ran  for  the  misty  marshes. 


Another  Convict . 


233 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  a rimy  morning,  and  very  damp.  I had  seen  the  damp  lying  on  the  out- 
side of  my  little  window,  as  if  some  goblin  had  been  crying  there  all  night,  and 
using  the  window  for  a pocket-handkerchief.  Now  I saw  the  damp  lying  on  the 
bare  hedges  and  spare  grass,  like  a coarser  sort  of  spiders’  webs  ; hanging  itself 
from  twig  to  twig  and  blade  to  blade.  On  every  rail  and  gate,  wet  lay  clammy, 
and  the  marsh-mist  was  so  thick,  that  the  wooden  finger  on  the  post  directing 
people  to  our  village — a direction  which  they  never  accepted,  for  they  never  came 
there — was  invisible  to  me  until  I was  quite  close  under  it.  Then,  as  I looked  up 
at  it,  while  it  dripped,  it  seemed  to  my  oppressed  conscience  like  a phantom 
devoting  me  to  the  Hulks. 

The  mist  was  heavier  yet  when  I got  out  upon  the  marshes,  so  that  instead  of 
my  running  at  everything,  everything  seemed  to  run  at  me.  This  was  very  dis- 
agreeable to  a guilty  mind.  The  gates  and  dykes  and  banks  came  bursting  at  me 
through  the  mist,  as  if  they  cried  as  plainly  as  could  be,  “ A boy  with  Somebody- 
else’s  pork  pie  ! Stop  him  !”  The  cattle  came  upon  me  with  like  suddenness, 
staring  out  of  their  eyes,  and  steaming  out  of  their  nostrils,  “ Holloa,  young  thief !” 
One  black  ox,  with  a white  cravat  on — who  even  had  to  my  awakened  conscience 
something  of  a clerical  air — fixed  me  so  obstinately  with  his  eyes,  and  moved  his 
blunt  head  round  in  such  an  accusatory  manner  as  I moved  round,  that  I blubbered 
out  to  him,  “ I couldn’t  help  it,  sir  ! It  wasn’t  for  myself  I took  it !”  Upon  which 
he  put  down  his  head,  blew  a cloud  of  smoke  out  of  his  nose,  and  vanished  with  a 
kick-up  of  his  hind-legs  and  a flourish  of  his  tail. 

All  this  time  I was  getting  on  towards  the  river ; but  however  fast  I went,  I 
couldn’t  warm  my  feet,  to  which  the  damp  cold  seemed  riveted,  as  the  iron  was 
riveted  to  the  leg  of  the  man  I was  running  to  meet.  I knew  my  way  to  the 
Battery,  pretty  straight,  for  I had  been  down  there  on  a Sunday  with  Joe,  and 
Joe,  sitting  on  an  old  gun,  had  told  me  that  when  I was  ’prentice  to  him,  regularly 
bound,  we  would  have  such  Larks  there  ! However,  in  the  confusion  of  the 
mist,  I found  myself  at  last  too  far  to  the  right,  and  consequently  had  to  try  back 
along  the  river-side,  on  the  bank  of  loose  stones  above  the  mud  and  the  stakes 
that  staked  the  tide  out.  Making  my  way  along  here  with  all  despatch,  I had 
just  crossed  a ditch  which  I knew  to  be  very  near  the  Battery,  and  had  just  scram- 
bled up  the  mound  beyond  the  ditch,  when  I saw  the  man  sitting  before  me.  His 
back  was  towards  me,  and  he  had  his  arms  folded,  and  was  nodding  forward, 
heavy  with  sleep. 

I thought  he  would  be  more  glad  if  I came  upon  him  with  his  breakfast,  in  that 
unexpected  manner,  so  I went  forward  softly  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
He  instantly  jumped  up,  and  it  was  not  the  same  man,  but  another  man  ! 

And  yet  this  man  was  dressed  in  coarse  grey,  too,  and  had  a great  iron  on  his 
leg,  and  was  lame,  and  hoarse,  and  cold,  and  was  everything  that  the  other  man 
was  ; except  that  he  had  not  the  same  face,  and  had  a flat,  broad-brimmed,  low- 
crowned  felt  hat  on.  All  this  I saw  in  a moment,  for  I had  only  a moment  to 
see  it  in  : he  swore  an  oath  at  me,  made  a hit  at  me — it  was  a round,  weak  blow 
that  missed  me  and  almost  knocked  himself  down,  for  it  made  him  stumble — and 
then  he  ran  into  the  mist,  stumbling  twice  as  he  went,  and  I lost  him. 

‘‘It’s  the  young  man  ! ” I thought,  feeling  my  heart  shoot  as  I identified  him. 
I dare  say  I should  have  felt  a pain  in  my  liver,  too,  if  I had  known  where  it 
was. 

I was  soon  at  the  Battery,  after  that,  and  there  was  the  right  man— -hugging 


Great  Expectations. 


234 


himsHf  and  limping  to  and  fro,  as  if  lie  had  rever  all  night  left  olf  hugging  an<i 
limping — waiting  for  me.  He  was  awfully  cold,  to  be  sure.  I half  expected  to 
se<-  him  drop  down  before  my  face  and  die  of  deadly  cold.  His  eyes  looked  sa 
awfully  hungry,  too,  that  when  I handed  him  the  file  and  he  laid  it  down  on  the 
gras?v  it  occurred  to  me  he  would  have  tried  to  eat  it,  if  he  had  not  seen  my 
bundle.  He  did  not  turn  me  upside  down,  this  time,  to  get  at  what  J had,  but 
left  me  right  side  upwards  while  I opened  the  bundle  and  emptied  my  pockets. 

“ What’s  in  the  bottle,  boy  ? ” said  he. 

“ Brandy,”  said  I. 

He  was  already  handing  mincemeat  down  his  throat  in  the  most  curious  manner 
— more  like  a man  who  was  putting  it  away  somewhere  in  a violent  hurry,  than  a 
man  who  was  eating  it — but  he  left  off  to  take  some  of  the  liquor.  He  shivered 
all  the  while  so  violently,  that  it  was  quite  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  the 
tieck  of  the  bottle  between  his  teeth,  without  biting  it  off. 

“ I think  you  have  got  the  ague,”  said  I. 

“ I’m  much  of  your  opinion,  boy,”  said  he. 

“ It’s  bad  about  here,”  I told  him.  “You’ve  been  lying  out  on  the  meshes, 
aid  they’re  dreadful  aguish.  Rheumatic  too.” 

“ I’ll  eat  my  breakfast  afore  they’re  the  death  of  me,”  said  he.  “ I’d  do  that 
if  I was  going  to  be  strung  up  to  that  there  gallows  as  there  is  over  there,  directly 
arterwards.  I’ll  beat  the  shivers  so  far,  /’ll  bet  you.” 

He  was  gobbling  mincemeat,  meatbone,  bread,  cheese,  and  pork  pie,  all  at 
once  : staring  distrustfully  while  he  did  so  at  the  mist  all  round  us,  and  often 
stopping — even  stopping  his  jaws — to  listen.  Some  real  or  fancied  sound,  some 
clink  upon  the  river  or  breathing  of  beast  upon  the  marsh,  now  gave  him  a start, 
and  he  said,  suddenly  : 

“ You’re  not  a deceiving  imp  ? You  brought  no  one  with  you  ? n 
“ No,  sir!  No!” 

“ Nor  giv’  no  one  the  office  to  follow  you  ? 99 
“No!  ” 

“ Well,”  said  he,  “ I believe  you.  You’d  be  but  a fierce  young  hound  indeed, 
if  at  your  time  of  life  you  could  help  to  hunt  a wretched  warmint,  hunted  as 
near  death  and  dunghill  as  this  poor  wretched  warmint  is  ! ” 

Something  clicked  in  his  throat  as  if  he  had  works  in  him  like  a clock,  and 
was  going  to  strike.  And  he  smeared  his  ragged  rough  sleeve  over  his  eyes. 

Pitying  his  desolation,  and  watching  him  as  he  gradually  settled  down  upon 
the  pie,  I made  bold  to  say,  “I  am  glad  you  enjoy  it.” 

“ Did  you  speak  ? ” 

“ I said,  I was  glad  you  enjoyed  it.” 

“ Thankee,  my  boy.  I do.” 

I had  often  watched  a large  dog  of  ours  eating  his  food  ; and  I now  noticed 
a decided  similarity  between  the  dog’s  way  of  eating,  and  the  man’s.  The  man 
took  strong  sharp  sudden  bites,  just  like  the  dog.  He  swallowed,  or  rather  snapped 
up,  every  mouthful,  too  soon  and  too  fast ; and  he  looked  sideways  here  and  there 
while  he  ate,  as  if  lie  thought  there  was  danger  in  every  direction  of  somebody’s 
coming  to  take  the  pie  away.  He  was  altogether  too  unsettled  in  his  mind  over 
it,  to  appreciate  it  comfortably,  I thought,  or  to  have  anybody  to  dine  with  him. 
without  making  a chop  with  his  jaws  at  the  visitor.  In  all  of  which  particulars 
he  was  very  like  the  dog. 

“ I am  afraid  you  won’t  leave  any  of  it  for  him,”  said  I,  timidly  ; after  a silence 
during  which  I had  hesitated  as  to  the  politeness  of  making  the  remark.  “There’s 
no  more  to  be  got  where  that  came  from.”  It  was  the  certainty  of  this  fact  thaf 
impelled  me  to  offer  the  hint. 


I execute  my  trust . 235 

“ Leave  any  for  him  ? Who’s  him  ? ” said  my  friend,  stopping  in  his  crunch- 
ing of  pie-crust. 

“ The  young  man.  That  you  spoke  of.  That  was  hid  with  you.” 

“Oh  ah  ! ” he  returned,  with  something  like  a gruff  laugh.  “Him?  Yes, 
yes  ! He  don’t  want  no  wittles.” 

“ I thought  he  looked  as  if  he  did,”  said  I. 

The  man  stopped  eating,  and  regarded  me  with  the  keenest  scrutiny  and  the 
greatest  surprise. 

“Looked?  When?” 

“Just  now.” 

“ Where  ? ” 

“ Yonder,”  said  I,  pointing;  “over  there,  where  I found  him  nodding  asleep, 
and  thought  it  was  you.” 

He  held  me  by  the  collar  and  stared  at  me  so,  that  I began  to  think  his  first 
idea  about  cutting  my  throat  had  revived. 

“ Dressed  like  you,  you  know,  only  with  a hat,”  I explained,  trembling  ; “ and 
— and  ” — I was  very  anxious  to  put  this  delicately — “ and  with — the  same  reason 
for  wanting  to  borrow  a file.  Didn’t  you  hear  the  cannon  last  night  ? ” 

“ Then,  there  was  firing!  ” he  said  to  himself. 

“ I wonder  you  shouldn’t  have  been  sure  of  that,”  I returned,  “ for  we  heard 
it  up  at  home,  and  that’s  further  away,  and  we  were  shut  in  besides.” 

“ Why,  see  now  ! ” said  he.  “ When  a man ’s  alone  on  these  flats,  with  a light 
head  and  a light  stomach,  perishing  of  cold  and  want,  he  hears  nothin’  all  night, 
but  guns  firing,  and  voices  calling.  Hears  ? He  sees  the  soldiers,  with  their  red 
coats  lighted  up  by  the  torches  carried  afore,  closing  in  round  him.  Hears  his 
number  called,  hears  himself  challenged,  hears  the  rattle  of  the  muskets,  hears 
the  orders  4 Make  ready  ! Present ! Cover  him  steady,  men  ! ” and  is  laid  hands 
on — and  there’s  nothin’  ! Why,  if  I see  one  pursuing  party  last  night — coming 
up  in  order,  Damn  ’em,  with  their  tramp,  tramp — I see  a hundred.  And  as  to 
firing  ! Why,  I see  the  mist  shake  with  the  cannon,  arter  it  was  broad  day. — But 
this  man  ; ” he  had  said  all  the  rest  as  if  he  had  forgotten  my  being  there  ; “ did 
you  notice  anything  in  him  ? ” 

“ He  had  a badly  bruised  face,”  said  I,  recalling  what  I hardly  knew  I knew. 

“ Not  here  ? ” exclaimed  the  man,  striking  his  left  cheek  mercilessly,  with  the 
flat  of  his  hand. 

“ Yes,  there  ! ” 

“ Where  is  he  ? ” He  crammed  what  little  food  was  left,  into  the  breast  of  liis 
grey  jacket.  “ Show  me  the  way  he  went.  I’ll  pull  him  down,  like  a blood- 
hound. Curse  this  iron  on  my  sore  leg  ! Give  us  hold  of  the  file,  boy.” 

I indicated  in  what  direction  the  mist  had  shrouded  the  other  man,  and  he 
looked  up  at  it  for  an  instant.  But  he  was  down  on  the  rank  wet  grass,  filing  at  his 
iron  like  a madman,  and  not  minding  me  or  minding  his  own  leg,  which  had  an 
old  chafe  upon  it  and  was  bloody,  but  which  he  handled  as  roughly  as  if  it  had 
no  more  feeling  in  it  than  the  file.  I was  very  much  afraid  of  him  again,  now 
that  he  had  worked  himself  into  this  fierce  hurry,  and  I was  likewise  very  much 
afraid  of  keeping  away  from  home  any  longer.  I told  him  I must  go,  but  he 
took  no  notice,  so  I thought  the  best  thing  I could  do  was  to  slip  off.  The  last 
I saw  of  him,  his  head  was  bent  over  his  knee  and  he  was  working  hard  at  his 
fetter,  muttering  impatient  imprecations  at  it  and  his  leg.  The  last  I heard  of 
him,  I stopped  in  the  mist  to  listen,  and  the  file  was  still  going. 


236 


Great  Expectations . 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I fully  expected  to  find  a Constable  in  the  kitchen,  waiting  to  take  me  up. 
But  not  only  was  there  no  Constable  there,  but  no  discovery  had  yet  been  made 
of  the  robbery.  Mrs.  Joe  was  prodigiously  busy  in  getting  the  house  ready  for 
the  festivities  of  the  day,  and  Joe  had  been  put  upon  the  kitchen  door-step  to 
keep  him  out  of  the  dust-pan — an  article  into  which  his  destiny  always  led 
him,  sooner  or  later,  when  my  sister  was  vigorously  reaping  the  floors  of  her 
establishment. 

“ And  where  the  deuce  ha’  you  been  ? ” was  Mrs.  Joe’s  Christmas  salutation, 
when  I and  my  conscience  showed  ourselves. 

I said  I had  been  down  to  hear  the  Carols.  “ Ah  ! well ! ” observed  Mrs.  Joe. 
“ You  might  ha’  done  worse.”  Not  a doubt  of  that  I thought. 

“ Perhaps  if  I warn’t  a blacksmith’s  wife,  and  (what’s  the  same  thing)  a slave 
with  her  apron  never  off,  I should  have  been  to  hear  the  Carols,”  said  Mrs.  Joe. 
“ I’m  rather  partial  to  Carols  myself,  and  that’s  the  best  of  reasons  for  my  never 
hearing  any.” 

Joe,  who  had  ventured  into  the  kitchen  after  me  as  the  dust-pan  had  retired 
before  us,  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  nose  with  a conciliatory  air,  when 
Mrs.  Joe  darted  a look  at  him,  and,  when  her  eyes  were  withdrawn,  secretly 
crossed  his  two  forefingers,  and  exhibited  them  to  me,  as  our  token  that  Mrs.  Joe 
was  in  a cross  temper.  This  was  so  much  her  normal  state,  that  Joe  and  I would 
often,  for  weeks  together,  be,  as  to  our  fingers,  like  monumental  Crusaders  as  to 
their  legs. 

We  were  to  have  a superb  dinner,  consisting  of  a leg  of  pickled  pork  and 
greens,  and  a pair  of  roast  stuffed  fowls.  A handsome  mince-pie  had  been  made 
yesterday  morning  (which  accounted  for  the  mincemeat  not  being  missed),  and 
the  pudding  was  already  on  the  boil.  These  extensive  arrangements  occasioned 
us  to  be  cut  off  unceremoniously  in  respect  of  breakfast ; “ for  I ain’t,”  said  Mrs. 
Joe,  “ I ain’t  a going  to  have  no  formal  cramming  and  busting  and  washing  up 
now,  with  what  I’ve  got  before  me,  I promise  you  ! ” 

So,  we  had  our  slices  served  out,  as  if  we  were  two  thousand  troops  on  a forced 
march  instead  of  a man  and  boy  at  home ; and  we  took  gulps  of  milk  and  water, 
with  apologetic  countenances,  from  a jug  on  the  dresser.  In  the  meantime, 
Mrs.  Joe  put  clean  white  curtains  up,  and  tacked  a new  flowered-flounce  across 
the  wide  chimney  to  replace  the  old  one,  and  uncovered  the  little  state  parlour 
across  the  passage,  which  was  never  uncovered  at  any  other  time,  but  passed  the 
rest  of  the  year  in  a cool  haze  of  silver  paper,  which  even  extended  to  the  four 
little  white  crockery  poodles  on  the  mantelshelf,  each  with  a black  nose  and  a 
basket  of  flowers  in  his  mouth,  and  each  the  counterpart  of  the  other.  Mrs.  Joe 
was  a very  clean  housekeeper,  but  had  an  exquisite  art  of  making  her  cleanliness 
more  uncomfortable  and  unacceptable  than  dirt  itself.  Cleanliness  is  next  to 
Godliness,  and  some  people  do  the  same  by  their  religion. 

My  sister  having  so  much  to  do,  was  going  to  church  vicariously ; that  is  to  say, 
Joe  and  I were  going.  In  his  working  clothes,  Joe  was  a well-knit  characteristic- 
looking blacksmith  ; in  his  holiday  clothes,  he  was  more  like  a scarecrow  in  good 
circumstances,  than  anything  else.  Nothing  that  he  wore  then,  fitted  him  or 
/seemed  to  belong  to  him ; and  everything  that  he  wore  then,  grazed  him.  On 
the  present  festive  occasion  he  emerged  from  his  room,  when  the  blithe  bells  were 
going,  the  picture  of  misery,  in  a full  suit  of  Sunday  penitentials.  As  to  me,  I 
tli ink  my  sister  must  have  had  some  general  idea  that  I was  a young  offender 


Pumblechook  and  the  rest  of  the  Company 


237 


whom  an  Accoucheur  Policeman  had  taken  up  (on  my  birthday)  and  delivered 
over  to  her,  to  be  dealt  with  according  to  the  outraged  majesty  of  the  law.  I was 
always  treated  as  if  I had  insisted  on  being  born  in  opposition  to  the  dictates  of 
reason,  religion,  and  morality,  and  against  the  dissuading  arguments  of  my  best 
friends.  Even  when  I was  taken  to  have  a new  suit  of  clothes,  the  tailor  had 
orders  to  make  them  like  a kind  of  Reformatory,  and  on  no  account  to  let  me 
have  the  free  use  of  my  limbs. 

Joe  and  I going  to  church,  therefore,  must  have  been  a moving  spectacle  for 
compassionate  minds.  Yet,  what  I suffered  outside,  was  nothing  to  what  I 
underwent  within.  The  terrors  that  had  assailed  me  whenever  Mrs.  Joe  had  gone 
near  the  pantry,  or  out  of  the  room,  were  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  remorse  with 
which  my  mind  dwelt  on  what  my  hands  had  done.  Under  the  weight  of  my 
wicked  secret,  I pondered  whether  the  Church  would  be  powerful  enough  to  shield 
me  from  the  vengeance  of  the  terrible  young  man,  if  I divulged  to  that  establish- 
ment. I conceived  the  idea  that  the  time  when  the  banns  were  read  and  when 
the  clergyman  said,  “ Ye  are  now  to  declare  it ! ” would  be  the  time  for  me  to 
rise  and  propose  a private  conference  in  the  vestry.  I am  far  from  being  sure  that 
I might  not  have  astonished  our  small  congregation  by  resorting  to  this  extreme 
measure,  but  for  its  being  Christmas  Day  and  no  Sunday. 

Mr.  Wopsle,  the  clerk  at  church,  was  to  dine  with  us;  and  Mr.  Hubble,  the 
wheelwright,  and  Mrs.  Hubble ; and  Uncle  Pumblechook  (Joe’s  uncle,  but  Mrs. 
Joe  appropriated  him),  who  was  a well-to-do  cornchandler  in  the  nearest  town, 
and  drove  his  own  chaise-cart.  The  dinner  hour  was  half-past  one.  When  Joe  and 
I got  home,  we  found  the  table  laid,  and  Mrs.  Joe  dressed,  and  the  dinner  dressing, 
and  the  front  door  unlocked  (it  never  was  at  any  other  time)  for  the  company  to 
enter  by,  and  everything  most  splendid.  And  still,  not  a word  of  the  robbery. 

The  time  came,  without  bringing  with  it  any  relief  to  my  feelings,  and  the 
company  came.  Mr.  Wopsle,  united  to  a Roman  nose  and  a large  shining  bald 
forehead,  had  a deep  voice  which  he  was  uncommonly  proud  of;  indeed  it  was 
understood  among  his  acquaintance  that  if  you  could  only  give  him  his  head,  he 
would  read  the  clergyman  into  fits;  he  himself  confessed  that  if  the  Church  was 
‘‘thrown  open,”  meaning  to  competition,  he  would  not  despair  of  making  his 
mark  in  it.  The  Church  not  being  “ thrown  open,”  he  was,  as  I have  said,  our 
clerk.  But  he  punished  the  Amens  tremendously ; and  when  he  gave  out  the 
psalm — always  giving  the  whole  verse — he  looked  all  round  the  congregation  first, 
as  much  as  to  say,  “You  have  heard  our  friend  overhead ; oblige  me  with  youi 
opinion  of  this  style ! ” 

I opened  the  door  to  the  company — making  believe  that  it  was  a habit  of  ours 
to  open  that  door — and  I opened  it  first  to  Mr.  Wopsle,  next  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hubble,  and  last  of  all  to  Uncle  Pumblechook.  N.B.  /was  not  allowed  to  call 
him  uncle,  under  the  severest  penalties. 

“ Mrs.  Joe,”  said  Uncle  Pumblechook  ; a large  hard-breathing  middle-aged  slow 
man,  with  a mouth  like  a fish,  dull  staring  eyes,  and  sandy  hair  standing  upright 
on  his  head,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  he  had  just  been  all  but  choked,  and  had  that 
moment  come  to  ; “I  have  brought  you  as  the  compliments  of  the  season — I have 
brought  you,  Mum,  a bottle  of  sherry  wine — and  I have  brought  you,  Mum,  a 
bottle  of  port  wine.” 

Eveiy  Christmas  Day  he  presented  himself,  as  a profound  novelty,  with  exactly 
the  same  words,  and  carrying  the  two  bottles  like  dumb-bells.  Every  Christmas 
Day,  Mrs.  Joe  replied,  as  she  now  replied,  “Oh,  Un — cle  Pum — ble — chook  J 
This  is  kind  !”  Every  Christmas  Day,  he  retorted,  as  he  now  retorted,  “It’s  no 
more  than  your  merits.  And  now  are  you  all  bobbish,  and  how’s  Sixpennorth  ot 
halfpence  ?”  meaning  me. 


238 


Great  Expectations. 


We  dined  on  these  occasions  in  the  kitchen,  and  adjourned,  for  the  nuts  and 
oranges  and  apples,  to  the  parlour  ; which  was  a change  very  like  Joe’s  change 
from  his  working  clothes  to  his  Sunday  dress.  My  sister  was  uncommonly  lively 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  indeed  was  generally  more  gracious  in  the  society  of 
Mrs.  Hubble  than  in  other  company.  I remember  Mrs.  Hubble  as  a little  cu; ly 
sharp-edged  person  in  sky-blue,  who  held  a conventionally  juvenile  position, 
because  she  had  married  Mr.  Hubble — I don’t  know  at  what  remote  period — 
when  she  was  much  younger  than  he.  I remember  Mr.  Hubble  as  a tough  high- 
shouldered  stooping  old  man,  of  a sawdustv  fragrance,  with  his  legs  extraordinarily 
wide  apart  : so  that  in  my  short  days  I always  saw  some  miles  of  open  country 
between  them  when  I met  him  coming  up  the  lane. 

Among  this  good  company  I should  have  felt  myself,  even  if  I hadn’t  robbed 
the  pantry,  in  a false  position.  Not  because  I was  squeezed  in  at  an  acute  angle 
of  the  table-cloth,  with'  the  table  in  my  chest,  and  the  Pumblechookian  elbow  in 
my  eye,  nor  because  I was  not  allowed  to  speak  (I  didn’t  want  to  speak),  nor 
because  I was  regaled  with  the  scaly  tips  of  the  drumsticks  of  the  fowls,  and  with 
those  obscure  corners  of  pork  of  which  the  pig,  when  living,  had  had  the  least 
reason  to  be  vain.  No  ; I should  not  have  minded  that  if  they  would  only  have 
left  me  alone.  But  they  wouldn’t  leave  me  alone.  They  seemed  to  think  the 
opportunity  lost,  if  they  faik  d to  point  the  conversation  at  me,  every  now  and 
then,  and  stick  the  point  into  me.  I might  have  been  an  unfortunate  little  bull  in 
a Spanish  arena,  I got  so  smartingly  touched  up  by  these  moral  goads. 

It  began  the  moment  we  sat  down  to  dinner.  Mr.  Wopsle  said  grace  with 
theatrical  declamation — as  it  now  appears  to  me,  something  like  a religious  cross 
of  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet  with  Richard  the  Third — and  ended  with  the  very  proper 
aspiration  that  we  might  be  truly  grateful.  Upon  which  my  sister  fixed  me  with 
her  eye,  and  said,  in  a low  reproachful  voice,  “Do  you  hear  that?  Be  grateful.” 
“ Especially,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  “ be  grateful,  boy,  to  them  which  brought 
you  up  by  hand.” 

Mrs.  Hubble  shook  her  head,  and  contemplating  me  with  a mournful  presenti- 
ment that  I should  come  to  no  good,  asked,  “ Why  is  it  that  the  young  are  never 
grateful  ?”  This  moral  mystery  seemed  too  much  for  the  company  until  Mr. 
Hubble  tersely  solved  it  by  saying,  “ Naterally  wicious.”  Everybody  then 
murmured  “True!”  and  looked  at  me  in  a particularly  unpleasant  and  personal 
manner. 

Joe’s  station  and  influence  were  something  feebler  (if  possible)  when  there  was 
company,  than  when  there  was  none.  But  he  always  aided  and  comforted  me 
when  he  could,  in  some  way  of  his  own,  and  he  always  did  so  at  dinner-time  by 
giving  me  gravy,  if  there  were  any.  There  being  plenty  of  gravy  to-day,  Joe 
spooned  into  my  plate,  at  this  point,  about  half  a pint. 

A little  later  on  in  the  dinner,  Mr.  Wopsle  reviewed  the  sermon  with  some 
severity,  and  intimated — in  the  usual  hypothetical  case  of  the  Church  being 
“ thrown  open  ” — what  kind  of  sermon  he  would  have  given  them.  After  favour- 
ing them  with  some  heads  of  that  discourse,  he  remarked  that  he  considered  the 
subject  of  the  day’s  homily,  ill-chosen ; which  was  the  less  excusable,  he  added, 
when  there  were  so  many  subjects  “ going  about.” 

“ True  again,”  said  Uncle  Pumblechook.  “You’ve  hit  it,  sir  ! Plenty  of  sub- 
jects going  about,  for  them  that  know  how  to  put  salt  upon  their  tails.  That’s 
what’s  wanted.  A man  needn’t  go  far  to  find  a subject,  if  he’s  ready  with  his 
salt-box.”  Mr.  Pumblechook  added,  after  a short  interval  of  reflection,  “Look 
at  Pork  alone.  There’s  a subject ! If  you  want  a subject,  look  at  Pork  !” 

'‘True,  sir.  Many  a moral  for  the  young,”  returned  Mr.  Wopsle  ; and  I knew 
he  was  going  to  lug  me  in,  before  he  said  it ; “ might  be  deduced  from  that  text  n 


Frightful  demonstrate  rs  of  Pumblechook.  239 


(“  You  listen  to  this,”  said  my  sister  to  me,  in  a severe  parenthesis.) 

Joe  gave  me  some  more  gravy. 

“Swine,”  pursued  Mr.  Wopsle,  in  his  deepest  voice,  and  pointing  his  fork  at 
my  blushes,  as  if  he  were  mentioning  my  Christian  name  ; “ Swine  were  the  com- 
panions of  the  prodigal.  The  gluttony  of  Swine  is  put  before  us,  as  an  example 
to  the  young.”  (I  thought  this  pretty  well  in  him  who  had  been  praising  up  the 
pork  for  being  so  plump  and  juicy.)  “ What  is  detestable  in  a pig,  is  more 
detestable  in  a boy.” 

“Or  girl,”  suggested  Mr.  Hubble. 

“ Of  course,  or  girl,  Mr.  Hubble,”  assented  Mr.  Wopsle,  rather  irritably,  “but 
there  is  no  girl  present.” 

“ Besides,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  turning  sharp  on  me,  “ think  what  you’ve 
got  to  be  grateful  for.  If  you’d  been  born  a Squeaker ” 

“ He  was,  if  ever  a child  was,”  said  my  sister,  most  emphatically. 

Joe  gave  me  some  more  gravy. 

“ Well,  but  I mean  a four-footed  Squeaker,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook.  “If  you 
had  been  born  such,  would  you  have  been  here  now  ? Not  you ” 

“ Unless  in  that  form,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  nodding  towards  the  dish. 

“But  I don’t  mean  in  that  form,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Pumblechook,  who  had  an 
objection  to  being  interrupted  ; “I  mean,  enjoying  himself  with  his  elders  and 
betters,  and  improving  himself  with  their  conversation,  and  rolling  in  the  lap  of 
luxury.  Would  he  have  been  doing  that  ? No,  he  wouldn’t.  And  what  would 
have  been  your  destination  ?”  turning  on  me  again.  “You  would  have  been  dis- 
posed of  for  so  many  shillings  according  to  the  market  price  of  the  article,  and 
Dunstable  the  butcher  would  have  come  up  to  you  as  you  lay  in  your  straw,  and 
he  would  have  whipped  you  under  his  left  arm,  and  with  his  right  he  would  have 
tucked  up  his  frock  to  get  a penknife  from  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  he 
would  have  shed  your  blood  and  had  your  life.  No  bringing  up  by  hand  then. 
Not  a bit  of  it !” 

Joe  offered  me  more  gravy,  which  I was  afraid  to  take. 

“ He  was  a world  of  trouble  to  you,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Hubble,  commiserating 
my  sister. 

“Trouble?”  echoed  my  sister,  “trouble?”  And  then  entered  on  a fearful 
catalogue  of  all  the  illnesses  I had  been  guilty  of,  and  all  the  acts  oi‘  sleeplessness 
I had  committed,  and  all  the  high  places  I had  tumbled  from,  and  all  the  low 
places  I had  tumbled  into,  and  all  the  injuries  I had  done  myself,  and  all  the  times 
she  had  wished  me  in  my  grave,  and  I had  contumaciously  refused  to  go  there. 

I think  the  Romans  must  have  aggravated  one  another  very  much,  with  their 
noses.  Perhaps,  they  became  the  restless  people  they  were,  in  consequence. 
Anyhow,  Mr.  Wopsle’s  Roman  nose  so  aggravated  me,  during  the  recital  of  my 
misdemeanours,  that  I should  have  liked  to  pull  it  until  he  howled.  But,  all  I 
had  endured  up  to  this  time,  was  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  awful  feelings 
that  took  possession  of  me  when  the  pause  was  broken  which  ensued  upon  my 
sister’s  recital,  and  in  which  pause  everybody  had  looked  at  me  (as  I felt  painfully 
conscious)  with  indignation  and  abhorrence. 

“ Yet,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  leading  the  company  gently  back  to  the  theme 
from  which  they  had  strayed,  “ Pork — regarded  as  biled — is  rich,  too  ; ain’t  it  ?” 

“ Have  a little  brandy,  uncle,”  said  my  sister. 

O Heavens,  it  had  come  at  last  ! He  would  find  it  was  weak,  he  would  say  it 
was  weak,  and  I was  lost ! I held  tight  to  the  leg  of  the  table,  under  the  cloth, 
with  both  hands,  and  awaited  my  fate. 

My  sister  went  for  the  stone  bottle,  came  back  with  the  stone  bottle,  and  p >ured 
his  brandy  out  no  one  else  taking  any.  The  wretched  man  trifled  with  hrs  glas> 


240 


Great  Expectations . 


— took  it  up,  looked  at  it  through  the  light,  put  it  down-  -prolonged  my  misery. 
All  this  time  Mrs.  Joe  and  Joe  were  briskly  clearing  the  table  for  the  pie  and 
pudding. 

I couldn’t  keep  my  eyes  off  him.  Always  holding  tight  by  the  leg  of  the  table 
with  my  hands  and  feet,  I saw  the  miserable  creature  finger  his  glass  playfully, 
take  it  up,  smile,  throw  his  head  back,  and  drink  the  brandy  off.  Instantly  after- 
wards, the  company  were  seized  with  unspeakable  consternation,  owing  to  his 
springing  to  his  feet,  turning  round  several  times  in  an  appalling  spasmodic 
whooping-cough  dance,  and  rushing  out  at  the  door ; he  then  became  visible 
through  the  window,  violently  plunging  and  expectorating,  making  the  most 
hideous  faces,  and  apparently  out  of  his  mind. 

I held  on  tight,  while  Mrs.  Joe  and  Joe  ran  to  him.  I didn’t  know  how  I had 
done  it,  but  I had  no  doubt  I had  murdered  him  somehow.  In  my  dreadful  situa- 
tion, it  was  a relief  when  he  was  brought  back,  and,  surveying  the  company  all 
round  as  if  they  had  disagreed  with  him,  sank  down  into  his  chair  with  the  one 
significant  gasp,  “ Tar ! ” 

I had  filled  up  the  bottle  from  the  tar-water  jug.  I knew  he  would  be  worse 
by-and-by.  I moved  the  table,  like  a Medium  of  the  present  day,  by  the  vigour 
of  my  unseen  hold  upon  it. 

“Tar!”  cried  my  sister,  in  amazement.  “Why,  how  ever  could  Tar  come 
there  ?” 

But,  Uncle  Pumblechook,  who  was  omnipotent  in  that  kitchen,  wouldn’t  hear 
the  word,  wouldn’t  hear  of  the  subject,  imperiously  waved  it  all  away  with  his 
hand,  and  asked  for  hot  gin-and-water.  My  sister,  who  had  begun  to  be  alarm- 
ingly meditative,  had  to  employ  herself  actively  in  getting  the  gin,  the  hot  water, 
the  sugar,  and  the  lemon-peel,  and  mixing  them.  For  the  time  at  least,  I was 
saved.  I still  held  on  to  the  leg  of  the  table,  but  clutched  it  now  with  the  fervour 
of  gratitude. 

By  degrees,  I became  calm  enough  to  release  my  grasp,  and  partake  of  pudding. 
Mr.  Pumblechook  partook  of  pudding.  All  partook  of  pudding.  The  course 
terminated,  and  Mr.  Pumblechook  had  begun  to  beam  under  the  genial  influence 
of  gin-and-water.  I began  to  think  I should  get  over  the  day,  when  my  sister  said 
to  Joe,  “ Clean  plates — cold.” 

I clutched  the  leg  of  the  table  again  immediately,  and  pressed  it  to  my  bosom 
as  if  it  had  been  the  companion  of  my  youth  and  friend  of  my  soul.  I foresa  w 
what  was  coming,  and  I felt  that  this  time  I really  was  gone. 

“ You  must  taste,”  said  my  sister,  addressing  the  guests  with  her  best  grace, 
“ You  must  taste,  to  finish  with,  such  a delightful  and  delicious  present  of  Uncle 
Pumblechook’s !” 

Must  they  ! Let  them  not  hope  to  taste  it ! 

“ You  must  know,”  said  my  sister,  rising,  “it’s  a pie  ; a savoury  pork  pie.” 

The  company  murmured  their  compliments.  Uncle  Pumblechook,  sensible  of 
having  deserved  well  of  his  fellow-creatures,  said — quite  vivaciously,  all  tilings 
considered — “ Well,  Mrs.  Joe,  we’ll  do  our  best  endeavours  ; let  us  have  a cut  at 
this  same  pie.” 

My  sister  went  out  to  get  it.  I heard  her  steps  proceed  to  the  pantry.  I saw 
Mr.  Pumblechook  balance  his  knife.  I saw  re-awakening  appetite  in  the  Romar 
nostrils  of  Mr.  Wopsle.  I heard  Mr.  Hubble  remark  that  “ a bit  of  savoury  pork 
pie  would  lay  atop  of  anything  you  could  mention,  and  do  no  harm,”  and  I heard 
Joe  say,  “You  shall  have  some,  Pip.”  I have  never  been  absolutely  certain 
whether  I uttered  a shrill  yell  of  terror,  merely  in  spirit,  or  in  the  bodily  hearing 
of  the  company.  I felt  that  I could  bear  no  more,  and  that  I must  run  away.  I 
released  the  leg  of  the  table,  and  ran  for  my  life. 


The  Sergeant  and  Soldiers. 


241 


But  I ran  no  further  than  the  house  door,  for  there  I ran  head  foremost  into  a 
party  of  soldiers  with  their  muskets  : one  of  whom  held  cut  a pair  of  handcuffs  to 
me,  saying,  “Here you  are,  look  sharp,  come  on!” 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  apparition  of  a file  of  soldiers  ringing  down  the  butt-ends  of  their  loaded 
muskets  on  our  door-step,  caused  the  dinner-party  to  rise  from  table  in  confusion, 
and  caused  Mrs.  Joe,  re-entering  the  kitchen  empty-handed,  to  stop  short  and 
stare,  in  her  wondering  lament  of  “ Gracious  goodness  gracious  me,  what’s  gone 
— with  the — pie  !” 

The  sergeant  and  I were  in  the  kitchen  when  Mrs.  Joe  stood  staring ; at 
which  crisis  I partially  recovered  the  use  of  my  senses.  It  was  the  sergeant 
who  had  spoken  to  me,  and  he  was  now  looking  round  at  the  company,  with 
his  handcuffs  invitingly  extended  towards  them  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  left  on 
my  shoulder. 

“Excuse  me,  ladies  and  gentlemen,”  said  the  sergeant,  “but  as  I have  men- 
tioned at  the  door  to  this  smart  young  shaver”  (which  he  hadn’t),  “I  am  on  a 
chase  in  the  name  of  the  king,  and  I want  the  blacksmith.” 

“And  pray,  what  might  you  want  with  him?”  retorted  my  sister,  quick  to 
resent  his  being  wanted  at  all. 

“Missis,”  returned  the  gallant  sergeant,  “ speaking  for  myself,  I should  reply, 
the  honour  and  pleasure  of  his  fine  wife’s  acquaintance ; speaking  for  the  king,  I 
answer,  a little  job  done.” 

This  was.  received  as  rather  neat  in  the  sergeant ; insomuch  that  Mr.  Pumble- 
chook  cried  audibly,  “ Good  again  !” 

“ You  see,  blacksmith,”  said  the  sergeant,  who  had  by  this  time  picked  out  Joe 
with  his  eye,  “ we  have  had  an  accident  with  these,  and  I find  the  lock  of  one  of 
'em  goes  wrong,  and  the  coupling  don’t  act  pretty.  As  they  are  wanted  for 
immediate  service,  will  you  throw  your  eye  over  them  ?” 

Joe  threw  his  eye  over  them,  and  pronounced  that  the  job  would  necessitate 
the  lighting  of  his  forge  fire,  and  would  take  nearer  two  hours  than  one,  “ Will  it  ? 
Then  will  you  set  about  it  at  once,  blacksmith  ?”  said  the  off-hand  sergeant,  “ as 
it’s  on  his  Majesty’s  service.  And  if  my  men  can  bear  a hand  anywhere,  they’ll 
make  themselves  useful.”  With  that  he  called  to  his  men,  who  came  trooping 
into  the  kitchen  one  after  another,  and  piled  their  arms  in  a corner.  And  then 
they  stood  about,  as  soldiers  do  ; now,  with  their  hands  loosely  clasped  before  them  ; 
now,  resting  a knee  or  a shoulder  ; now,  easing  a belt  or  a pouch  ; now,  opening 
the  door  to  spit  stiffly  over  their  high  stocks,  out  into  the  yard. 

All  these  things  I saw  without  then  knowing  that  I saw  them,  for  I was  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension.  But,  beginning  to  perceive  that  the  handcuffs  were  not 
for  me,  and  that  the  military  had  so  far  got  the  better  of  the  pie  as  to  put  it  in  the 
oackground,  I collected  a little  more  of  my  scattered  wits. 

“ Would  you  give  me  the  Time  !”  said  the  sergeant,  addressing  himself  to  Mi. 
Pumblechook,  as  to  a man  whose  appreciative  powers  justified  the  inference  that 
he  was  equal  to  the  time. 

“It’s  just  gone  half-past  two.” 

“ That’s  not  so  bad,”  said  the  sergeant,  reflecting  ; “ even  if  I was  forced  to  halt 
here  nigh  two  hours,  that’ll  do.  How  far  might  you  call  yourselves  from  the 
marshes,  hereabouts  ? Not  above  a mile,  I reckon?” 

“ Just  a mile,”  said  Mrs.  Joe. 


242 


Great  Expectations . 


“ That’ll  do.  We  begin  to  close  in  upon  ’em  about  dusk.  A lk tie  before  dusk, 
my  orders  are.  That’ll  do.” 

“ Convicts,  sergeant  ?”  asked  Mr.  Wopsle,  in  a matter-of-course  way. 

“ Ay !”  returned  the  sergeant,  “ two.  They’re  pretty  well  known  to  be  out 
on  the  marshes  still,  and  they  won’t  try  to  get  clear  of  ’em  before  dusk.  Anybody 
here  seen  anything  of  any  such  game  ?” 

Everybody,  myself  excepted,  said  no,  with  confidence.  Nobody  thought  of  me. 

‘‘Well,”  said  the  sergeant,  “they’ll  find  themselves  trapped  in  a circle,  I 
expect,  sooner  than  they  count  on.  Now,  blacksmith  ! If  you’re  ready,  his 
Majesty  the  King  is.” 

Joe  had  got  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  cravat  off,  and  his  leather  apron  on,  and 
passed  into  the  forge.  One  of  the  soldiers  opened  its  wooden  windows,  another 
lighted  the  fire,  another  turned  to  at  the  bellows,  the  rest  stood  round  the  blaze, 
which  was  soon  roaring.  Then  Joe  began  to  hammer  and  clink,  hammer  and 
clink,  and  we  all  looked  on. 

The  interest  of  the  impending  pursuit  not  only  absorbed  the  general  attention, 
but  even  made  my  sister  liberal.  She  drew  a pitcher  of  beer  from  the  cask,  foi 
the  soldiers,  and  invited  the  sergeant  to  take  a glass  of  brandy.  But  Mr.  Pumble- 
chook  said  sharply,  “ Give  him  wine,  Mum.  I’ll  engage  there’s  no  Tar  in  that 
so,  the  sergeant  thanked  him  and  said  that,  as  he  preferred  his  drink  without  tar, 
he  would  take  wine,  if  it  was  equally  convenient.  When  it  was  given  him,  he 
drank  his  Majesty’s  health  and  compliments  of  the  season,  and  took  it  all  at  a 
mouthful  and  smacked  his  lips. 

“ Good  stuff,  eh,  sergeant  ?”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  something,”  returned  the  sergeant ; “ I suspect  that  stuff’s  of  your 
providing.” 

Mr.  Pumblechook,  with  a fat  sort  of  laugh,  said,  “ Ay,  ay?  Why  ?” 

“ Because,”  returned  the  sergeant,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  “ you’re  a man 
that  knows  what’s  what.” 

“D’ye  think  so?”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  with  his  former  laugh.  “Have 
another  glass  !” 

“ With  you.  Hob  and  nob,”  returned  the  sergeant.  “ The  top  of  mine  to  the 
foot  of  yours — the  foot  of  yours  to  the  top  of  mine — Ring  once,  ring  twice — the 
best  tune  on  the  Musical  Glasses  ! Your  health.  May  you  live  a thousand  years, 
and  never  be  a worse  judge  of  the  right  sort  than  you  are  at  the  present  moment 
of  your  life  !” 

The  sergeant  tossed  off  his  glass  again  and  seemed  quite  ready  for  another  glass. 
I noticed  that  Mr.  Pumblechook  in  his  hospitality  appeared  to  forget  that  he  had 
made  a present  of  the  wine,  but  took  the  bottle  from  Mrs.  Joe  and  had  all  the 
credit  of  handing  it  about  in  a gush  of  joviality.  Even  I got  some.  And  he  was 
so  very  free  of  the  wine  that  he  even  called  for  the  other  bottle,  and  handed  that 
about  with  the  same  liberality,  when  the  first  was  gone. 

As  I watched  them  while  they  all  stood  clustering  about  the  forge,  enjoying 
? themselves  so  much,  I thought  what  terrible  good  sauce  for  a dinner  my  fugitive 
friend  on  the  marshes  was.  They  had  not  enjoyed  themselves  a quarter  so  much, 
before  the  entertainment  was  brightened  with  the  excitement  he  furnished.  And 
now,  when  they  were  all  in  lively  anticipation  of  “ the  two  villains”  being  taken, 
and  when  the  bellows  seemed  to  roar  for  the  fugitives,  the  fire  to  flare  for  them, 
the  smoke  to  hurry  away  in  pursuit  of  them,  Joe  to  hamn  er  and  clink  for  them,  and 
all  the  murky  shadows  on  the  wall  to  shake  at  them  in  menace  as  the  blaze  rose 
and  sank  and  the  red-hot  sparks  dropped  and  died,  the  pale  afternoon  outside 
almost  seemed  in  my  pitying  young  fancy  to  have  turned  pale  op  their  account, 
poo*  wretches. 


In  pursuit . 


243 


At  last,  Joe’s  job  was  done,  and  the  ringing  and  roaring  stopped.  As  Joe  got 
on  liis  coat,  he  mustered  courage  to  propose  that  some  of  us  should  go  down  with 
the  soldieis  and  see  what  came  of  the  hunt.  Mr.  Pumblechook  and  Mr.  Hubble 
declined,  on  the  plea  of  a pipe  and  ladies’  society;  but  Mr.  Wopsle  said  he  would 
go,  if  Joe  would.  Joe  said  he  was  agreeable,  and  would  take  me,  if  Mrs.  Joe 
approved.  We  never  should  have  got  leave  to  go,  I am  sure,  but  for  Mrs.  Joe’s 
curiosity  to  know  all  about  it  and  how  it  ended.  As  it  was,  she  merely  stipulated, 
“ If  you  bring  the  boy  back  with  his  head  blown  to  bits  by  a musket,  don’t  look 
to  me  to  put  it  together  again.” 

The  sergeant  took  a polite  leave  of  the  ladies,  and  parted  from  Mr.  Pumblechook 
as  from  a comrade ; though  I doubt  if  he  were  quite  as  fully  sensible  of  that  gen- 
tleman’s merits  under  arid  conditions,  as  when  something  moist  was  going.  His 
men  resumed  their  muskets  and  fell  in.  Mr.  Wopsle,  Joe,  and  I,  received  strict 
charge  to  keep  in  the  rear,  and  to  speak  no  word  after  we  reached  the  marshes. 
When  we  were  all  out  in  the  raw  air  and  were  steadily  moving  towards  our  busi- 
ness, 1 treasonably  whispered  to  Joe,  “ I hope,  Joe,  we  shan’t  find  them.”  And 
Joe  whispered  to  me,  **  I’d  give  a shilling  if  they  had  cut  and  run,  Pip.” 

We  were  joined  by  no  stragglers  from  the  village,  for  the  weather  was  cold  and 
threatening,  the  way  dreary,  the  footing  bad,  darkness  coming  on,  and  the  people 
had  good  fires  in-doors  and  were  keeping  the  day.  A few  faces  hurried  to  glowing 
windows  and  looked  after  us,  but  none  came  out.  We  passed  the  finger-post,  and 
held  straight  on  to  the  churchyard.  There,  we  were  stopped  a few  minutes  by  a 
signal  from  the  sergeant’s  hand,  while  two  or  three  of  his  men  dispersed  themselves 
among  the  graves,  and  also  examined  the  porch.  They  came  in  again  without 
finding  anything,  and  then  we  struck  out  on  the  open  marshes,  through  the 
gate  at  the  side  of  the  churchyard.  A bitter  sleet  came  rattling  against  us  here  on 
the  east  wind,  and  Joe  took  me  on  his  back. 

Now  that  we  were  out  upon  the  dismal  wilderness  where  they  little  thought  I 
had  been  within  eight  or  nine  hours,  and  had  seen  both  men  hiding,  I considered 
fir  the  first  time,  with  great  dread,  if  we  should  come  upon  them,  would  my  par- 
ticular convict  suppose  that  it  was  I who  had  brought  the  soldiers  there  ? He  had 
asked  me  if  I was  a deceiving  imp,  and  he  said  I should  be  a fierce  young  hound 
if  I joined  the  hunt  against  him.  Would  he  believe  that  I was  both  imp  and 
hound  in  treacherous  earnest,  and  had  betrayed  him  ? 

It  was  of  no  use  asking  myself  this  question  now.  There  I was,  on  Joe’s  back, 
and  there  was  Joe  beneath  me,  charging  at  the  ditches  like  a hunter,  and  stimu- 
lating Mr.  Wopsle  not  to  tumble  on  his  Roman  nose,  and  to  keep  up  with  us. 
The  soldiers  were  in  front  of  us,  extending  into  a pretty  wide  line  with  an  interval 
between  man  and  man.  We  were  taking  the  course  I had  begun  with,  and  from 
which  I had  diverged  into  the  mist.  Either  the  mist  was  not  out  again  yet,  or  the 
wind  had  dispelled  it.  Under  the  low  red  glare  of  sunset,  the  beacon,  and  the 
gibbet,  and  the  mound  of  the  Battery,  and  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  were 
plain,  though  all  of  a watery  lead  colour. 

With  my  heart  thumping  like  a blacksmith  at  Joe’s  broad  shoulder,  I looked  all 
about  for  any  sign  of  the  convicts.  I could  see  none,  I could  hear  none.  Mr. 
Wopsle  had  greatly  alarmed  me  more  than  once,  by  his  blowing  and  hard  breath- 
ing ; but  I knew  the  sounds  by  this  time,  and  could  dissociate  them  from  the 
object  of  pursuit.  I got  a dreadful  start,  when  I thought  I heard  the  file  still 
going ; but  it  was  only  a sheep  bell.  The  sheep  stopped  in  their  eating  and 
looked  timidly  at  us ; and  the  cattle,  their  heads  turned  from  the  wind  and  sleet, 
stared  angrily  as  if  they  held  us  responsible  for  both  annoyances  ; but,  except  these 
things,  and  the  shudder  of  the  dying  day  in  every  blade  of  grass,  there  was  no 
break  in  the  bleak  stillness  of  the  marshes. 


*44 


Great  Expectations. 

The  soldiers  were  moving  on  in  the  direction  of  the  old  Battery,  and  we  were 
moving  on  a little  way  behind  them,  when,  all  of  a sudden,  we  all  stopiped.  For, 
there  had  reached  us,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  and  rain,  a long  shout.  It  was 
repeated.  Jt  was  at  a distance  towards  the  east,  but  it  was  long  and  loud.  Nay, 
there  seemed  to  be  two  or  more  shouts  raised  together — if  one  might  judge  from  a 
confusion  in  the  sound. 

To  this  effect  the  sergeant  and  the  nearest  men  were  speaking  under  their  breath, 
when  Joe  and  I came  up.  After  another  moment’s  listening,  Joe  (who  was  a good 
judge)  agreed,  and  Mr.  Wopsle  (who  was  a bad  judge)  agreed.  The  sergeant,  a 
decisive  man,  ordered  that  the  sound  should  not  be  answered,  but  that  the  course 
should  be  changed,  and  that  his  men  should  make  towards  it  “at  the  double.” 
So  we  started  to  the  right  (where  the  East  was),  and  Joe  pounded  away  so  won- 
derfully, that  I had  to  hold  on  tight  to  keep  my  seat. 

It  was  a run  indeed  now,  and  what  Joe  called,  in  the  only  two  words  he  spoke 
all  the  time,  “ a Winder.”  Down  banks  and  up  banks,  and  over  gates,  and 
splashing  into  dykes,  and  breaking  among  coarse  rushes  : no  man  cared  where 
he  went.  As  we  came  nearer  to  the  shouting,  it  became  more  and  more  apparent 
that  it  was  made  by  more  than  one  voice.  Sometimes,  it  seemed  to  stop  alto- 
gether, and  then  the  soldiers  stopped.  When  it  broke  out  again,  the  soldiers 
made  for  it  at  a greater  rate  than  ever,  and  we  after  them.  After  a while,  we  had 
so  run  it  down,  that  we  could  hear  one  voice  calling  “Murder!”  and  another 
voice,  “Convicts!  Runaways!  Guard!  This  way  for  the  runaway  convicts!’* 
Then  both  voices  would  seem  to  be  stifled  in  a struggle,  and  then  would  break  out 
again.  And  when  it  had  come  to  this,  the  soldiers  ran  like  deer,  and  Joe  too. 

The  sergeant  ran  in  first,  when  we  had  run  the  noise  quite  down,  and  two  of 
his  men  ran  in  close  upon  him.  Their  pieces  were  cocked  and  levelled  when  we 
all  ran  in. 

“ Here  are  both  men  !”  panted  the  sergeant,  struggling  at  the  bottom  of  a ditch. 
u Surrender,  you  two  ! and  confound  you  for  two  wild  beasts  ! Come  asunder !” 

Water  was  splashing,  and  mud  was  flying,  and  oaths  were  being  sworn,  and 
blows  were  being  struck,  when  some  more  men  went  down  into  the  ditch  to  help 
the  sergeant,  and  dragged  out,  separately,  my  convict  and  the  other  one.  Both 
were  bleeding  and  panting  and  execrating  and  struggling  ; but  of  course  I knew 
them  both  directly. 

“ Mind  !”  said  my  convict,  wiping  blood  from  his  face  with  his  ragged  sleeves, 
and  shaking  torn  hair  from  his  fingers ; “/  took  him  ! I give  him  up  to  you ! 
Mind  that !” 

“ It’s  not  much  to  be  particular  about,”  said  the  sergeant;  “ it’ll  do  you  small 
good,  my  man,  being  in  the  same  plight  yourself.  Handcuffs  there  !” 

“ I don’t  expect  it  to  do  me  any  good.  I don't  want  it  to  do  me  more  good 
than  it  does  now,”  said  my  convict,  with  a greedy  laugh.  “ I took  him.  He 
knows  it.  That’s  enough  for  me.” 

The  other  convict  was  livid  to  look  at,  and,  in  addition  to  the  old  bruised  left 
side  of  his  face,  seemed  to  be  bruised  and  torn  all  over.  He  could  not  so  much 
as  get  his  breath  to  speak,  until  they  were  both  separately  handcuffed,  but  leaned 
upon  a soldier  to  keep  himself  from  falling. 

“ Take  notice,  guard — he  tried  to  murder  me,”  were  his  first  words. 

“ Tried  to  murder  him  ?”  said  my  convict,  disdainfully.  “ Try,  and  not  do  it  ? 
I took  him,  and  giv’  him  up ; that’s  what  I done.  I not  only  prevented  him 
getting  off  the  marshes,  but  I dragged  him  here — dragged  him  this  far  on  his  way 
back.  He’s  a gentleman,  if  you  please,  this  villain.  Now,  the  Hulks  has  got  its 
gentleman  again,  through  me.  Murder  him  ? Worth  my  while,  too,  to  murdel 
iiiru,  when  I could  d<r  worse  and  drag  him  back  !** 


We  come  up  with  the  Convicts . 


2 45 


The  other  one  still  gasped,  “ He  tried — he  tried — to — murder  me.  Bear — beai 
witness.” 

“ Lookee  here  !”  said  my  convict  to  the  sergeant.  Single-handed  I got  clear 
of  the  prison-ship  ; I made  a dash  and  I done  it.  I could  ha’  got  clear  of  these 
death-cold  flats  likewise — look  at  my  leg : you  won’t  find  much  iron  on  it — if  I 
hadn’t  made  discovery  that  he  was  here.  Let  him  go  free  ? 'Let  him  profit  by  the 
means  as  I found  out  ? Let  him  make  a tool  of  me  afresh  and  again  ? Once 
more  ? No,  no,  no.  If  I had  died  at  the  bottom  there  ;”  and  he  made  an  emphatic 
swing  at  the  ditch  with  his  manacled  hands  ; “I’d  have  held  to  him  with  that 
grip,  that  you  should  have  been  safe  to  find  him  in  my  hold.” 

The  other  fugitive,  who  was  evidently  in  extreme  horror  of  his  companion, 
repeated,  “ He  tried  to  murder  me.  I should  have  been  a dead  man  if  you  had 
not  come  up.” 

“ He  lies  !”  said  my  convict,  with  fierce  energy.  “ He’s  a liar  born,  and  he’ll 
die  a liar.  Look  at  his  face  ; ain’t  it  written  there  ? Let  him  turn  those  eyes  of 
his  on  me.  I defy  him  to  do  it.” 

The  other,  with  an  effort  at  a scornful  smile — which  could  not,  however,  collect 
the  nervous  working  of  his  mouth  into  any  set  expression,  looked  at  the  soldiers, 
and  looked  about  at  the  marshes  and  at  the  sky,  but  certainly  did  not  look  at  the 
speaker. 

“Do  you  see  him  ?”  pursued  my  convict.  “Do  you  see  what  a villain  he  is  ? 
Do  you  see  those  grovelling  and  wandering  eyes  ? That’s  how  he  looked  when 
we  were  tried  together.  He  never  looked  at  me.” 

The  other,  always  working  and  working  his  dry  lips  and  turning  his  eyes  rest- 
lessly about  him  far  and  near,  did  at  last  turn  them  for  a moment  on  the  speaker, 
with  the  words,  “ You  are  not  much  to  look  at,”  and  with  a half-taunting  glance 
at  the  bound  hands.  At  that  point,  my  convict  became  so  frantically  exasperated, 
that  he  would  have  rushed  upon  him  but  for  the  interposition  of  the  soldiers. 
“ Didn’t  I tell  you,”  said  the  other  convict  then,  “ that  he  would  murder  me,  if 
he  could  ?”  And  any  one  could  see  that  he  shook  with  fear,  and  that  there  broke 
out  upon  his  lips  curious  white  flakes,  like  thin  snow. 

“ Enough  of  this  parley,”  said  the  sergeant.  “ Light  those  torches.” 

As  one  of  the  soldiers,  who  carried  a basket  in  lieu  of  a gun,  went  down  on  his 
knee  to  open  it,  my  convict  looked  round  him  for  the  first  time,  and  saw  me.  I 
had  alighted  from  Joe’s  back  on  the  brink  of  the  ditch  when  we  came  up,  and  had 
not  moved  since.  I looked  at  him  eagerly  when  he  looked  at  me,  and  slightly 
moved  my  hands  and  shook  my  head.  I had  been  waiting  for  him  to  see  me,  that 
I might  try  to  assure  him  of  my  innocence.  It  was  not  at  all  expressed  to  me  that  he 
even  comprehended  my  intention,  for  he  gave  me  a look  that  I did  not  understand, 
and  it  all  passed  in  a moment.  But  if  he  had  looked  at  me  for  an  hour  or  for  a 
day,  I could  not  have  remembered  his  face  ever  afterwards,  as  having  been  more 
attentive. 

The  soldier  with  the  basket  soon  got  a light,  and  lighted  three  or  four  torches, 
and  took  one  himself  and  distributed  the  others.  It  had  been  almost  dark  before, 
but  now  it  seemed  quite  dark,  and  soon  afterwards  very  dark.  Before  we  departed 
from  that  spot,  four  soldiers  standing  in  a ring,  fired  twice  into  the  air.  Presently 
we  saw  other  torches  kindled  at  some  distance  behind  us,  and  others  on  the 
marshes  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  “ All  right,”  said  the  sergeant. 
“March.” 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  three  cannon  were  fired  ahead  of  us  with  a soTind 
that  seemed  to  burst  something  inside  my  ear.  “ You  are  expected  on  beard,” 
said  the  sergeant  to  my  convict ; “ they  know  you  are  coming.  Don’t  straggle, 
my  man,  Close  up  here.” 


Great  Expectation s. 


246 


The  two  were  kept  apart,  and  each  walked  surrounded  by  a separate  guard.  I 
had  hold  of  Joe’s  hand  now,  and  Joe  carried  one  of  the  torches.  Mr.  Wopsfe 
had  been  for  going  back,  but  Joe  was  resolved  to  see  it  out,  so  we  went  on  with  th 
party.  There  was  a reasonably  good  path  now,  mostly  on  the  edge  of  the  river, 
with  a divergence  here  and  there  where  a dyke  came,  with  a miniature  windmill  on 
it  and  a muddy  sluice-gate.  When  I looked  round,  I could  see  the  other  lights 
coming  in  after  us.  The  torches  we  carried,  dropped  great  blotches  of  fire  upon 
the  track,  and  I could  see  those,  too,  lying  smoking  and  flaring.  I could  see 
nothing  else  but  black  darkness.  Our  lights  warmed  the  air  about  us  with  theii 
pitchy  blaze,  and  the  two  prisoners  seemed  rather  to  like  that,  as  they  limped 
along  in  the  midst  of  the  muskets.  We  could  not  go  fast,  because  of  their  lame- 
ness ; and  they  were  so  spent,  that  two  or  three  times  we  had  to  halt  while  they 
rested. 

After  an  hour  or  so  of  this  travelling,  we  came  to  a rough  wooden  hut  and  a 
landing-place.  There  was  a guard  in  the  hut,  and  they  challenged,  and  the  ser- 
geant answered.  Then,  we  went  into  the  hut,  where  there  was  a smell  of  tobacco 
and  whitewash,  and  a bright  fire,  and  a lamp,  and  a stand  of  muskets,  and  a 
drum,  and  a low  wooden  bedstead,  like  an  overgrown  mangle  without  the 
machineiy,  capable  of  holding  about  a dozen  soldiers  all  at  once.  Three  or  four 
soldiers  who  lay  upon  it  in  their  great-coats,  were  not  much  interested  in  us,  but 
just  lifted  their  heads  and  took  a sleepy  stare,  and  then  lay  down  again.  The 
sergeant  made  some  kind  of  report,  and  some  entry  in  a book,  and  then  the  con- 
vict whom  I call  the  other  convict  was  drafted  off  with  his  guard,  to  go  on  board 
first. 

My  convict  never  looked  at  me,  except  that  once.  While  we  stood  in  the  hut, 
he  stood  before  the  fire  looking  thoughtfully  at  it,  or  putting  up  his  feet  by  turns 
upon  the  hob,  and  looking  thoughtfully  at  them  as  if  he  pitied  them  for  theii 
recent  adventures.  Suddenly,  he  turned  to  the  sergeant,  and  remarked  : 

“ I wish  to  say  something  respecting  this  escape.  It  may  prevent  some  persons 
laying  under  suspicion  alonger  me.” 

“You  can  say  what  you  like,”  returned  the  sergeant,  standing  coolly  looking 
at  him  with  his  arms  folded,  “ but  you  have  no  call  to  say  it  here.  You’ll  have 
opportunity  enough  to  say  about  it,  and  hear  about  it,  before  it’s  done  with, 
you  know.” 

“I  know,  but  this  is  another  pint,  a separate  matter.  A man  can’t  starve;  at 
least /can’t.  I took  some  wittles,  up  at  the  willage  over  yonder — where  the 
church  stands  a’most  out  on  the  marshes.” 

“You  mean  stole,”  said  the  sergeant. 

“ And  I’ll  tell  you  where  from.  From  the  blacksmith’s.” 

“ Halloa  ! ” said  the  sergeant,  staring  at  Joe. 

“ Halloa,  Pip  !”  said  Joe,  staring  at  me. 

“ It  was  some  broken  wittles  —that’s  what  it  was — and  a dram  of  liquor,  and 
a pie.” 

“ Have  you  happened  to  miss  such  an  article  as  a pie,  blacksmith  ?”  asked  the 
sergeant,  confidentially. 

“ My  wife  did,  at  the  very  moment  when  you  came  in.  Don’t  you  know,  Pip  ?” 

“ So,”  said  my  convict,  turning  his  eyes  on  Joe  in  a moody  manner,  and 
without  the  least  glance  at  me  ; “ so  you’re  the  blacksmith,  are  you  ? Then  I’m 
sorry  to  say,  I’ve  eat  your  pie.” 

“ God  knows  you’re  welcome  to  it — so  far  as  it  was  ever  mine,”  returned  Joe, 
with  a saving  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Joe.  “ We  don’t  know  what  you  have  done 
but  we  wouldn’t  have  you  starved  to  death  for  it,  poor  miserable  fellow-creatur.— * 
Would  us,  Pip  ?” 


The  Journey  back. 


247 


The  something  that  I had  noticed  before,  clicked  in  the  man’s  throat  again, 
and  he  turned  his  back.  The  boat  had  returned,  and  his  guard  were  ready,  so  we 
followed  him  to  the  landing-place  made  of  rough  stakes  and  stones,  and  saw  him 
put  into  the  boat,  which  was  rowed  by  a crew  of  convicts  like  himself.  No  one 
seemed  surprised  to  see  him,  or  interested  in  seeing  him,  or  glad  to  see  him,  or 
sorry  to  see  him,  or  spoke  a word,  except  that  somebody  in  the  boat  growled  as  if 
to  dogs,  “ Give  way,  you  !”  which  was  the  signal  for  the  dip  of  the  oars.  By  the 
light  of  the  torches,  we  saw  the  black  Hulk  lying  out  a little  way  from  the  mud  ot 
the  shore,  like  a wicked  Noah’s  ark.  Cribbed  and  barred  and  moored  by  massive 
rusty  chains,  the  prison-ship  seemed  in  my  young  eyes  to  be  ironed  like  the 
prisoners.  We  saw  the  boat  go  alongside,  and  we  saw  him  taken  up  the  side  and 
disappear.  Then,  the  ends  of  the  torches  were  flung  hissing  into  the  water,  and 
went  out,  as  if  it  were  all  over  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

My  state  of  mind  regarding  the  pilfering  from  which  I had  been  so  unexpectedly 
exonerated,  did  not  impel  me  to  frank  disclosure ; but  I hope  it  had  some  dregs 
of  good  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

I do  not  recall  that  I felt  any  tenderness  of  conscience  in  reference  to  Mrs.  Joe, 
when  the  fear  of  being  found  out  was  lifted  off  me.  But  I loved  Joe — perhaps 
for  no  better  reason  in  those  early  days  than  because  the  dear  fellow  let  me  love 
him — and,  as  to  him,  my  inner  self  was  not  so  easily  composed.  It  was  much 
upon  my  mind  (particularly  when  I first  saw  him  looking  about  for  his  file)  that  I 
ought  to  tell  Joe  the  whole  truth.  Yet  I did  not,  and  for  the  reason  that  I mis- 
trusted that  if  I did,  he  would  think  me  worse  than  I was.  The  fear  of  losing 
Joe’s  confidence,  and  of  thenceforth  sitting  in  the  chimney-corner  at  night  staring 
drearily  at  my  for  ever  lost  companion  and  friend,  tied  up  my  tongue.  I morbidly 
represented  to  myself  that  if  Joe  knew  it,  I never  afterwards  could  see  him  at  the 
fireside  feeling  his  fair  whisker,  without  thinking  that  he  was  meditating  on  it. 
That,  if  Joe  knew  it,  I never  afterwards  could  see  him  glance,  however  casually, 
at  yesterday’s  meat  or  pudding  when  it  came  on  to-day’s  table,  without  thinking 
that  he  was  debating  whether  I had  been  in  the  pantry.  That,  if  Joe  knew  it, 
and  at  any  subsequent  period  of  our  joint  domestic  life  remarked  that  his  beer  wTas 
fiat  or  thick,  the  conviction  that  he  suspected  Tar  in  it,  would  bring  a rush  of 
blood  *0  my  face.  In  a word,  I was  too  cowardly  to  do  what  I knew  to  be  right, 
as  I had  been  too  cowardly  to  avoid  doing  what  I knew  to  be  wrong.  I had  had 
no  intercourse  with  the  world  at  that  time,  and  I imitated  none  of  its  many 
inhabitants  who  act  in  this  manner.  Quite  an  untaught  genius,  I made  the  dis- 
covery of  the  line  of  action  for  myself. 

As  I was  sleepy  before  we  were  far  away  from  the  prison-ship,  Joe  took  me  on 
his  back  again  and  carried  me  home.  He  must  have  had  a tiresome  journey  of  it, 
for  Mr.  Wopsle,  being  knocked  up,  was  in  such  a very  bad  temper  that  if  the 
Church  had  been  thrown  open,  he  would  probably  have  excommunicated  the 
whole  expedition,  beginning  with  Joe  and  myself.  In  his  lay  capacity,  he  pei 
sisted  m sitting  down  in  the  damp  to  such  an  insane  extent,  that  when  his  coat 
was  taken  off  to  be  dried  at  the  kitchen  fire,  the  circumstantial  evidence  on  his 
trousers  would  have  hanged  him  if  it  had  been  a capital  offence. 

By  that  time,  I was  staggering  on  the  kitchen  floor  like  a little  drunkard, 
through  having  been  newly  set  upon  my  feet,  and  through  having  been  fast  asleep, 
ftnd  through  waking  in  the  heat  and  lights  and  noise  of  tongues.  As  I came  to 


Great  Expectations. 


148 


myself  (with  the  aid  of  a heavy  thump  between  the  shoulders,  and  the  restorative 
exclamation  “Yah  ! Was  there  ever  such  a boy  as  this  ! ” from  my  sister),  I found 
Joe  telling  them  about  the  convict’s  confession,  and  all  the  visitors  suggesting 
different  ways  by  which  he  had  got  into  the  pantry.  Mr.  Pumblechook  made  out, 
after  carefully  surveying  the  premises,  that  he  had  first  got  upon  the  roof  of  the 
forge,  and  had  then  got  upon  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  had  then  let  himself 
down  the  kitchen  chimney  by  a rope  made  of  his  bedding  cut  into  strips  ; and  as 
Mr.  Pumblechook  was  very  positive  and  drove  his  own  chaise-cart — over  every- 
body— it  was  agreed  that  it  must  be  so.  Mr.  Wopsle,  indeed,  wildly  cried  out 
“No  !”  with  the  feeble  malice  of  a tired  man  ; but,  as  he  had  no  theory,  and  no 
coat  on,  he  was  unanimously  set  at  nought — not  to  mention  his  smoking  bard 
behind,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  kitchen  fire  to  draw  the  damp  out : which 
was  not  calculated  to  inspire  confidence. 

This  was  all  I heard  that  night  before  my  sister  clutched  me,  as  a slumberous 
offence  to  the  company’s  eyesight,  and  assisted  me  up  to  bed  with  such  a strong 
hand  that  I seemed  to  have  fifty  boots  on,  and  to  be  dangling  them  all  against 
the  edges  of  the  stairs.  My  state  of  mind,  as  I have  described  it,  began  befo:e  I 
was  up  in  the  morning,  and  lasted  long  after  the  subject  had  died  out,  and  had 
ceased  to  be  mentioned  saving  on  exceptional  occasions. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A.T  the  time  when  I stood  in  the  churchyard,  reading  the  family  tombstones,  I 
jiad  just  enough  learning  to  be  able  to  spell  them  out.  My  construction  even  of 
their  simple  meaning  was  not  very  correct,  for  I read  “ wife  of  the  Above  ” as  a 
complimentary  reference  to  my  father’s  exaltation  to  a better  world  ; and  if  any 
one  of  my  deceased  relations  had  been  referred  to  as  “ Below,”  I have  no  doubt 
I should  have  formed  the  worst  opinions  of  that  member  of  the  family.  Neither 
were  my  notions  of  the  theological  positions  to  which  my  Catechism  bound  me, 
at  all  accurate ; for,  I have  a lively  remembrance  that  I supposed  my  declara- 
tion that  I was  to  “ walk  in  the  same  all  the  days  of  my  life,”  laid  me  under  an 
obligation  always  to  go  through  the  village  from  our  house  in  one  particulai 
direction,  and  never  to  vary  it  by  turning  down  by  the  wheelwright’s  or  up  by 
the  mill. 

When  I was  old  enough,  I was  to  be  apprenticed  to  Joe,  and  until  I could 
assume  that  dignity  I was  not  to  be  what  Mrs.  Joe  called  “ Pompeyed,”  or  (as  ] 
render  it)  pampered.  Therefore,  I was  not  only  odd-boy  about  the  forge,  buf 
if  any  neighbour  happened  to  want  an  extra  boy  to  frighten  birds,  or  pick  up 
stones,  or  do  any  such  job,  I was  favoured  with  the  employment.  In  order,  how- 
ever, that  our  superior  position  might  not  be  compromised  thereby,  a money-boi 
was  kept  on  the  kitchen  mantel-shelf,  into  which  it  was  publicly  made  known  thai 
all  my  earnings  were  dropped.  I have  an  impression  that  the)  were  to  be  con- 
tributed eventually  towards  the  liquidation  of  the  National  Debt,  but  I know  1 
had  no  hope  of  any  personal  participation  in  the  treasure. 

Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt  kept  an  evening  school  in  the  village ; that  is  to  say, 
she  was  a ridiculous  old  woman  of  limited  means  and  unlimited  infirmity,  who 
used  to  go  to  sleep  from  six  to  seven  every  evening,  in  the  society  of  youth  who 
paid  twopence  per  week  each,  for  the  improving  opportunity  of  seeing  her  do  it. 
She  rented  a small  cottage,  and  Mr.  Wopsle  had  the  room  up-stairs,  where  we 
students  used  to  overhear  him  reading  aloud  in  a most  dignified  and  terrific 
manner,  «nd  occasionally  bumping  on  the  ceiling.  There  was  a fiction  *hat  Mr. 


My  life  as  an  Odd  Boy, 


249 


Wopsle  “ examined  ” the  scholars,  once  a quarter.  What  he  did  on  those  occa- 
sions was  to  turn  up  his  cuffs,  stick  up  his  hair,  and  give  us  Mark  Antony’b 
oration  over  the  body  of  Caesar.  This  was  always  followed  by  Collins’s  Ode  on  the 
Passions,  wherein  I particularly  venerated  Mr.  Wopsle  as  Revenge,  throwing  his 
blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down,  and  taking  the  War-denouncing  trumpet 
with  a withering  look.  It  was  not  with  me  then,  as  it  was  in  later  life,  when  I 
fell  into  the  society  of  the  Passions,  and  compared  them  with  Collins  and  Wopsle, 
rather  to  the  disadvantage  of  both  gentlemen. 

Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt,  besides  keeping  this  Educational  Institution,  kept  in 
the  same  room — a little  general  shop.  She  had  no  idea  what  stock  she  had,  or 
what  the  price  of  anything  in  it  was  ; but  there  was  a little  greasy  memorandum- 
book  kept  in  a drawer,  which  served  as  a Catalogue  of  Prices,  and  by  this  oracle 
Biddy  arranged  all  the  shop  transactions.  Biddy  was  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt’s 
granddaughter  ; I confess  myself  quite  unequal  to  the  working  out  of  the  problem, 
what  relation  she  was  to  Mr.  Wopsle.  She  was  an  orphan  like  myself ; like  me, 
too,  had  been  brought  up  by  hand.  She  was  most  noticeable,  I thought,  in 
respect  of  her  extremities  ; for,  her  hair  always  wanted  brushing,  her  hands  always 
wanted  washing,  and  her  shoes  always  wanted  mending  and  pulling  up  at  heel. 
This  description  must  be  received  with  a week-day  limitation.  On  Sundays  she 
went  to  church  elaborated. 

Much  of  my  unassisted  self,  and  more  by  the  help  of  Biddy  than  of  Mr. 
Wopsle’s  great-aunt,  I struggled  through  the  alphabet  as  if  it  had  been  a bramble- 
bush  ; getting  considerably  worried  and  scratched  by  every  letter.  After  that,  I 
fell  among  those  thieves,  the  nine  figures,  who  seemed  every  evening  to  do  some- 
thing new  to  disguise  themselves  and  baffle  recognition.  But,  at  last  I began,  in 
a purblind  groping  way,  to  read,  write,  and  cipher,  on  the  very  smallest  scale. 

One  night,  I was  sitting  in  the  chimney-corner  with  my  slate,  expending  great 
efforts  on  the  production  of  a letter  to  Joe.  I think  it  must  have  been  a full  year 
after  our  hunt  upon  the  marshes,  for  it  was  a long  time  after,  and  it  was  winter 
and  a hard  frost.  With  an  alphabet  on  the  hearth  at  my  feet  for  reference,  I 
contrived  in  an  hour  or  two  to  print  and  smear  this  epistle  : 

“Ml  deEr  JO  i opE  U r krWitE  wEll  i opE  i shAl  soN  B haBepL 
4 2 teeDge  U JO  aN  theN  wE  shOrl  b sO  glOdd  aN  wEn  i m 
preNgtD  2 u JO  woT  larX  an  blEyE  ME  inF  xn  PiP.” 

There  was  no  indispensable  necessity  for  my  communicating  with  Joe  by  letter, 
inasmuch  as  he  sat  beside  me  and  we  were  alone.  But,  I delivered  this  written 
communication  (slate  and  all)  with  my  own  hand,  and  Joe  received  it,  as  a miracle 
of  erudition. 

“ I say,  Pip,  old  chap  !”  cried  Joe,  opening  his  blue  eyes  wide,  “what  a scholar 
you  are  ! Ain’t  you  ? ” 

“ I should  like  to  be,”  said  I,  glancing  at  the  slate  as  he  held  it : with  a mis 
giving  that  the  writing  was  rather  hilly. 

“ Why,  here’s  a J,”  said  Joe,  “ and  a O equal  to  anythink  ! Here’s  a J and  a 
O,  Pip,  and  a J-O,  Joe.” 

I had  never  heard  Joe  read  aloud  to  any  greater  extent  than  this  monosyllable, 
and  I had  observed  at  church  last  Sunday,  when  I accidentally  held  our  Prayer- 
Book  upside  down,  that  it  seemed  to  suit  his  convenience  quite  as  well  as  if  it  liad 
been  all  right.  Wishing  to  embrace  the  present  occasion  of  finding  out  whether 
in  teaching  Joe,  I should  have  to  begin  quite  at  the  beginning,  I said,  “Ah! 
But  read  the  rest,  Joe.” 

“The  rest,  eh,  Pip?”  said  Joe,  looking  at  it  with  a slowly  searching  eye, 
“ One.  two,  three.  Why,  here’s  three  Js,  and  three  Os,  and  three  T-O,  Joes,  in 
it,  Pip ! ” 


Great  Expectations . 


*5“ 


I leaned  over  Joe,  and,  with  the  aid  of  my  forefinger,  read  him  the  whole  letter. 
“ Astonishing !”  said  Joe,  when  I had  finished.  “You  are  a scholar.” 

“How  do  you  spell  Gargery,  Joe  ?”  I asked  him,  with  a modest  patronage 
“ I don’t  spell  it  at  all,”  said  Joe. 

“ But  supposing  you  did  ?” 

“ It  can't  be  supposed,”  said  Joe.  “ Tho*  I’m  oncommon  fond  ol  reading, 
too.” 

“ Are  you,  Joe  ?” 

“ On-common.  Give  me,”  said  Joe,  “a  good  book,  or  a good  newspaper,  and 
sit  me  down  afore  a good  fire,  and  I ask  no  better.  Lord!”  he  continued,  after 
rubbing  his  knees  a little,  “ when  you  do  come  to  a J and  a O,  and  says  you, 
* Here,  at  last,  is  a J-O,  Joe,’  how  interesting  reading  is  !” 

I derived  from  this  last,  that  Joe’s  education,  like  Steam,  was  yet  in  its  infancy. 
Pursuing  the  subject,  I inquired  : 

“ Didn’t  you  ever  go  to  school,  Joe,  when  you  were  as  little  as  me  ?” 

“No,  Pip.” 

“ Why  didn’t  you  ever  go  to  school,  Joe,  when  you  were  as  little  as  me  ?*’ 
“Well,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  taking  up  the  poker,  and  settling  himself  to  his  usual 
occupation  when  he  was  thoughtful,  of  slowly  raking  the  fire  between  the  lower 
bars  : “ I’ll  tell  you.  My  father,  Pip,  he  were  given  to  drink,  and  when  he  were 
overtook  with  drink,  he  hammered  away  at  my  mother  most  onmerciful.  It  were 
a’most  the  only  hammering  he  did,  indeed,  ’xcepting  at  myself.  And  he  ham- 
mered at  me  with  a wigour  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  wigour  with  which  he 
didn’t  hammer  at  his  anwil. — You’re  a-listening  and  understanding,  Pip  ?” 

“ Yes,  Joe.” 

“ ’Consequence,  my  mother  and  me  we  ran  away  from  my  father  several  times ; 
and  then  my  mother  she’d  go  out  to  work,  and  she’d  say,  ‘ Joe,’  she’d  say,  ‘ now, 
please  God,  you  shall  have  some  schooling,  child,’  and  she’d  put  me  to  school. 
But  my  father  were  that  good  in  his  hart  that  he  couldn’t  abear  to  be  without  us. 
So,  he’d  come  with  a most  tremenjous  crowd  and  make  such  a row  at  the  doors  of 
the  houses  where  we  was,  that  they  used  to  be  obligated  to  have  no  more  to  do 
with  us  and  to  give  us  up  to  him.  And  then  he  took  us  home  and  hammered  us. 
Which,  you  see,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  pausing  in  his  meditative  raking  of  the  fire,  and 
looking  at  me,  “ were  a drawback  on  my  learning.” 

“ Certainly,  poor  Joe  !” 

“ Though  mind  you,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  with  a judicial  touch  or  two  of  the  poker 
on  the  top  bar,  “rendering  unto  all  their  doo,  and  maintaining  equal  justice 
betwixt  man  and  man,  my  father  were  that  good  in  his  hart,  don’t  you  see  ?” 

I didn’t  see ; but  I didn’t  say  so. 

“ Well !”  Joe  pursued,  “somebody  must  keep  the  pot  a-biling,  Pip,  or  the  pot 
won’t  bile,  don’t  you  know  ?” 

I saw  that,  and  said  so. 

“ ’Consequence,  my  father  didn’t  make  objections  to  my  going  to  work  ; so  I 
went  to  work  at  my  present  calling,  which  were  his  too,  if  he  would  have  followed 
it,  and  I worked  tolerable’  hard,  I assure  you , Pip.  In  time  I were  able  to  keep 
him,  and  I kep  him  till  he  went  off  in  a purple  leptic  fit.  And  it  were  my  intern 
tions  to  have  had  put  upon  his  tombstone  that  Wha;sume’er  the  failings  on  his 
part,  Remember  reader  he  were  that  good  in  his  hart.” 

Joe  recited  this  couplet  with  such  manifest  pride  and  careful  perspicuity,  that  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  made  it  himself. 

“I  made  it,”  said  Joe,  “ my  own  self.  I made  it  in  a moment.  It  was  like 
striking  out  a horseshoe  complete,  in  a single  blow.  I never  was  so  much  sur« 
prised  in  all  my  life — couldn’t  credit  my  own  ed — to  tell  you  the  truth,  hardly 


Touching  Joe  i education. 


2Si 


believed  it  were  my  own  ed.  As  I was  saying,  Pip,  it  were  my  ntentions  to  have 
had  it  cut  over  him  ; but  poetry  costs  money,  cut  it  how  you  will,  small  or  large, 
and  it  were  not  done.  Not  to  mention  bearers,  all  the  money  that  could  be  spared 
were  wanted  for  my  mother.  She  were  in  poor  elth,  and  quite  broke.  She 
waren’t  long  of  following,  poor  soul,  and  her  share  of  peace  come  round  at 
last.” 

Joe’s  blue  eyes  turned  a little  watery ; he  rubbed,  first  one  of  them,  and  then 
the  other,  in  a most  uncongenial  and  uncomfortable  manner,  with  the  round  knob 
on  the  top  of  the  poker. 

“ It  were  but  lonesome  then,”  said  Joe,  “ living  here  alone,  and  I got  acquainted 
with  your  sister.  Now,  Pip  ;”  Joe  looked  firmly  at  me,  as  if  he  knew  I was  not 
going  to  agree  with  him  ; “ your  sister  is  a fine  figure  of  a woman.” 

I could  not  help  looking  at  the  fire,  in  an  obvious  state  of  doubt. 

“ Whatever  family  opinions,  or  whatever  the  world’s  opinions,  on  that  subject 
may  be,  Pip,  your  sister  is,”  Joe  tapped  the  top  bar  with  the  poker  after  eveiy 
word  following,  “ a — fine — figure — of — a— woman  !” 

I could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  than  “ I am  glad  you  think  so,  Joe.” 

“ So  am  I,”  returned  Joe,  catching  me  up.  “I am  glad  I think  so,  Pip.  A 
little  redness,  or  a little  matter  of  Bone,  here  or  there,  what  does  it  signify  to 
Me  ?” 

I sagaciously  observed,  if  it  didn’t  signify  to  him,  to  whom  did  it  signify  ? 

“Certainly!”  assented  Joe.  “ That’s  it.  You’re  right,  old  chap!  When  1 
got  acquainted  with  your  sister,  it  were  the  talk  how  she  was  bringing  you  up  by 
hand.  Very  kind  of  her  too,  all  the  folks  said,  and  I said,  along  with  all  the 
folks.  As  to  you,”  Joe  pursued,  with  a countenance  expressive  of  seeing  some- 
thing very  nasty  indeed  : “if  you  could  have  been  aware  how  small  and  flabby 
and  mean  you  was,  dear  me,  you’d  have  formed  the  most  contemptible  opinions 
of  yourself!” 

Not  exactly  relishing  this,  I said,  “Never  mind  me,  Joe.” 

“But  I did  mind  you,  Pip,”  he  returned,  with  tender  simplicity.  “When  I 
offered  to  your  sister  to  keep  company,  and  to  be  asked  in  church, at  such  times  as 
she  was  willing  and  ready  to  come  to  the  forge,  I said  to  her,  ‘ And  bring  the 
poor  little  child.  God  bless  the  poor  little  child,’  I said  to  your  sister,  ‘ there’s 
room  for  him  at  the  forge  !’  ” 

I broke  out  crying  and  begging  pardon,  and  hugged  Joe  round  the  neck  : who 
dropped  the  poker  to  hug  me,  and  to  say,  “ Ever  the  best  of  friends  ; ain’t  us,  Pip  ? 
Don’t  cry,  old  chap  !” 

When  this  little  interruption  was  over,  Joe  resumed  : 

“ Well,  you  see,  Pip,  and  here  we  are  ! That’s  about  where  it  lights  ; here  we 
are  ! Now,  when  you  take  me  in  hand  in  my  learning,  Pip  (and  I tell  you  before- 
hand I am  awful  dull,  most  awful  dull),  Mrs.  Joe  mustn’t  see  too  much  of  what 
we’re  up  to.  It  must  be  done,  as  I may  say,  on  the  sly.  And  why  on  the  sly  ? 
I’ll  tell  you  why,  Pip.” 

He  had  taken  up  the  poker  again ; without  which,  I doubt  if  he  could  have 
proceeded  in  his  demonstration. 

“ Your  sister  is  given  to  government.” 

“ Given  to  government,  Joe  ?”  I was  startled,  for  I had  some  shadowy  idea 
(and  I am  afraid  I must  add,  hope)  that  Joe  had  divorced  her  in  favour  of  the 
Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  or  Treasury. 

“Given  to  government,”  said  Joe.  “Which  I meantersay  the  government  of 
you  and  myself.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ And  she  ain’t  over  partial  to  having  scholars  on  the  premises,”  Joe  continued 


*5  2 


Great  Expectations . 


“and  in  partickler  would  not  be  over  partial  to  my  being  a scholar,  for  fear  as  J 
might  rise.  Like  a sort  of  rebel,  don’t  you  see  ?” 

I was  going  to  retort  with  an  inquiry,  and  had  got  as  far  as  “ Why ” when 

Joe  stopped  me. 

“ Stay  a bit.  I know  what  you’re  a-going  to  say,  Pip  ; stay  a bit ! I don’t  deny 
that  your  sister  comes  the  Mo-gul  over  us,  now  and  again.  I don’t  deny  that  she 
do  throw  us  back-falls,  and  that  she  do  drop  down  upon  us  heavy.  At  such  times 
as  when  your  sister  is  on  the  Ram-page,  Pip,”  Joe  sank  his  voice  to  a whisper 
and  glanced  at  the  door,  “ candour  compels  fur  to  admit  that  she  is  a Buster.” 

Joe  pronounced  this  word,  as  if  it  began  with  at  least  twelve  capital  Bs, 

“ Why  don’t  I rise  ? That  were  yo«r  observation  when  I broke  it  off,  Pip  ?” 

“ Yes,  Joe.” 

“Well,”  said  Joe,  passing  the  poker  into  his  left  hand,  that  he  might  feel  his 
whisker ; and  I had  no  hope  of  him  whenever  he  took  to  that  placid  occupation ; 
“ your  sister’s  a master-mind.  A master-mind.” 

“ What’s  that  ?”  I asked,  in  some  hope  of  bringing  him  to  a stand.  But,  Joe 
was  readier  with  his  definition  than  I had  expected,  and  completely  stopped  me 
by  arguing  circularly,  and  answering  with  a fixed  look,  “ Hei  ” 

“And  I ain’t  a master-mind,”  Joe  resumed,  when  he  had  unfixed  his  look,  and 
got  back  to  his  whisker.  “ And  last  of  all,  Pip— and  this  I want  to  say  very 
serous  to  you,  old  chap — I see  so  much  in  my  poor  mother,  of  a woman  drudging 
and  slaving  and  breaking  her  honest  hart  and  never  getting  no  peace  in  her  mortal 
days,  that  I’m  dead  afeerd  of  going  wrong  in  the  way  of  not  doing  what’s  right 
by  a woman,  and  I’d  fur  rather  of  the  two  go  wrong  the  t’other  way,  and  be  a 
little  ill-conwenienced  myself.  I wish  it  was  only  me  that  got  put  out,  Pip  ; I wish 
there  warn’t  no  Tickler  for  you,  old  chap  ; I wish  I could  take  it  all  on  myself ; 
but  this  is  the  up-and-down-and-straight  on  it,  Pip,  and  I hope  you’ll  overlook 
shortcomings.” 

Young  as  I was,  I believe  that  I dated  a new  admiration  of  Joe  from  that  night. 
We  were  equals  afterwards,  as  we  had  been  before  ; but,  afterwards  at  quiet 
times  when  I sat  looking  at  Joe  and  thinking  about  him,  I had  a new  sensation  oi 
feeling  conscious  that  I was  looking  up  to  Joe  in  my  heart. 

“However,”  said  Joe,  rising  to  replenish  the  fire;  “here’s  the  Dutch-clock 
a-working  himself  up  to  being  equal  to  strike  Eight  of  ’em,  and  she’s  not  come 
home  yet ! I hope  Uncle  Pumblechook’s  mare  mayn’t  have  set  a fore-foot  on  a 
piece  o’  ice,  and  gone  down.” 

Mrs.  Joe  made  occasional  trips  with  Uncle  Pumblechook  on  market-days,  to 
assist  him  in  buying  such  household  stuffs  and  goods  as  required  a woman’s  judg- 
ment ; Uncle  Pumblechook  being  a bachelor  and  reposing  no  confidences  in  his 
domestic  servant.  This  was  market-day,  and  Mrs.  Joe  was  out  on  one  of  these 
expeditions. 

Joe  made  the  fire  and  swept  the  hearth,  and  then  we  went  to  the  door  to  listen 
for  the  chaise-cart.  It  was  a dry  cold  night,  and  the  wind  blew  keenly,  and  the 
frost  was  white  and  hard.  A man  would  die  to-night  of  lying  out  on  the  marshes, 
I thought.  And  then  I looked  at  the  stars,  and  considered  how  awful  it  would  be 
for  a man  to  turn  his  face  up  to  them  as  he  froze  to  death,  and  see  no  help  or  pity 
in  all  the  glittering  multitude. 

“ Here  comes  the  mare,”  said  Joe,  “ ringing  like  a peal  of  bells  !” 

The  sound  of  her  iron  shoes  upon  the  hard  road  was  quite  musical,  as  she  came 
along  at  a much  brisker  trot  than  usual.  We  got  a chair  out,  ready  for  Mrs.  Joe’s 
alighting,  and  stirred  up  the  fire  that  they  might  see  a bright  window,  and  took  a 
final  survey  of  the  kitchen  that  nothing  might  be  out  of  its  place.  When  we  had 
toaipleted  these  preparations,  they  drove  up,  wrapped  to  the  eyes.  Mrs  Joe  was 


Arrival  of  Mrs.  Joe  with  news . 


253 


soon  landed,  and  Uncle  Pumblechook  was  soon  down  too,  covering  the  mare  with 
a cloth,  and  we  were  soon  all  in  the  kitchen,  carrying  so  much  cold  air  with  us 
chat  it  seemed  to  drive  all  the  heat  out  of  the  fire. 

“ Now,”  said  Mrs.  Joe,  unwrapping  herself  with  haste  and  excitement,  and 
throwing  her  bonnet  back  on  her  shoulders  where  it  hung  by  the  strings : “if  this 
boy  ain’t  grateful  this  night,  he  never  will  be  !” 

I looked  as  grateful  as  any  boy  possibly  could,  who  was  wholly  uninformed  why 
he  ought  to  assume  that  expression. 

“ It’s  only  to  be  hoped,”  said  my  sister,  “ that  he  won’t  be  Pompeyed.  But  I 
have  my  fears.” 

“She  ain’t  in  that  line,  Mum,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook.  “ She  knows  better.” 
She  ? I looked  at  Joe,  making  the  motion  with  my  lips  and  eyebrows,  “ She  ?” 
Joe  looked  at  me,  making  the  motion  with  his  lips  and  eyebrows,  “ She  ?”  My 
sister  catching  him  in  the  act,  he  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  nose  with 
his  usual  conciliatory  air  on  such  occasions,  and  looked  at  her. 

“ Well  ?”  said  my  sister,  in  her  snappish  way.  “ What  are  you  staring  at  ? Is 
the  house  a-fire  ?” 

“ — Which  some  individual,”  Joe  politely  hinted,  “ mentioned  she.” 

“ And  she  is  a she,  I suppose  ?”  said  my  sister.  “ Unless  you  call  Miss  Havis- 
ham  a he.  And  I doubt  if  even  you’ll  go  so  far  as  that.” 

“ Miss  Havisham  up  town?”  said  Joe. 

“ Is  there  any  Miss  Havisham  down  town  ?”  returned  my  sister.  “ She  wants 
this  boy  to  go  and  play  there.  And  of  course  he’s  going.  And  he  had  better 
play  there,”  said  my  sister,  shaking  her  head  at  me  as  an  encouragement  to  be 
extremely  light  and  sportive,  “ or  I’ll  work  him.” 

I had  heard  of  Miss  Havisham  up  town — everybody  for  miles  round,  had  heard  of 
Miss  Havisham  up  town — as  an  immensely  rich  and  grim  lady  who  lived  in  a large 
and  dismal  house  barricaded  against  robbers,  and  who  led  a life  of  seclusion. 

“Well  to  be  sure  !”  said  Joe,  astounded.  “ I wonder  how  she  comes  to  know 
Pip !” 

“ Noodle  !”  cried  my  sister.  “ Who  said  she  knew  him  ?” 

“ — Which  some  individual,”  Joe  again  politely  hinted,  “ mentioned  that  she 
wanted  him  to  go  and  play  there.” 

“ And  couldn’t  she  ask  Uncle  Pumblechook  if  he  knew  of  a boy  to  go  and  play 
there?  Isn’t  it  just  barely  possible  that  Uncle  Pumblechook  may  be  a tenant  of 
hers,  and  that  he  may  sometimes — we  won’t  say  quarterly  or  half-yearly,  for  that 
would  be  requiring  too  much  of  you — but  sometimes — go  there  to  pay  his  rent  ? 
And  couldn’t  she  then  ask  Uncle  Pumblechook  if  he  knew  of  a boy  to  go  and 
play  there  ? And  couldn’t  Uncle  Pumblechook,  being  always  considerate  and 
thoughtful  for  us — though  you  may  not  think  it,  Joseph,”  in  a tone  of  the  deepest 
reproach,  as  if  he  were  the  most  callous  of  nephews,  “ then  mention  this  boy, 
standing  Prancing  here  ” — which  I solemnly  declare  I was  not  doing — “ that  I 
have  for  ever  been  a willing  slave  to  ?” 

“ Good  again  !”  cried  Uncle  Pumblechook.  “Well  put!  Prettily  pointed! 
Good  indeed  ! Now,  Joseph,  you  know  the  case.” 

“No,  Joseph,”  said  my  sister,  still  in  a reproachful  manner,  while  Joe  apologe- 
tically drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  and  across  his  nose,  “you  do  not  yet — 
though  you  may  not  think  it — know  the  case.  You  may  consider  that  you  do,  but 
you  do  not)  Joseph.  For  you  do  not  know  that  Uncle  Pumblechook,  being  sen- 
sible that  for  anything  we  can  tell,  this  boy’s  fortune  may  be  made  by  his  going  to 
Miss  Havisham’s,  has  offered  to  take  him  into  town  to-night  in  his  own  chaise- 
cart,  and  to  keep  him  to-night,  and  to  take  him  with  his  own  hands  to  Miss  Havi- 
sham’s  to-morrow  morning.  And  Lor-a-mussy  me  !”  cried  my  sister,  casting  off 


254 


Great  Expectations . 


her  bonnet  in  sudden  desperation,  “here  I stand  talking  to  mere  Mooncalfs,  with 
Uncle  Pumblechook  waiting,  and  the  mare  catching  cold  at  the  door,  and  the  boy 
grimed  with  crock  and  dirt  from  the  hair  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot !” 

With  that,  she  pounced  on  me,  like  an  eagle  on  a lamb,  and  my  face  was 
squeezed  into  wooden  bowls  in  sinks,  and  my  head  was  put  under  taps  of  water- 
butts,  and  1 was  soaped,  and  kneaded,  and  towelled,  and  thumped,  and  harrowed, 
and  rasped,  until  I really  was  quite  beside  myself.  (I  may  here  remark  that  I sup- 
pose myself  to  be  better  acquainted  than  any  living  authority,  with  the  ridgy  effect 
of  a wedding-ring,  passing  unsympathetically  over  the  human  countenance.) 

When  my  ablutions  were  completed,  I was  put  into  clean  linen  of  the  stiffest 
character,  like  a young  penitent  into  sackloth,  and  was  trussed  up  in  my  tightest 
and  fearfullest  suit.  I was  then  delivered  over  to  Mr.  Pumblechook,  who  formally 
received  me  as  if  he  were  the  Sheriff,  and  who  let  off  upon  me  the  speech  that  I 
knew  he  had  been  dying  to  make  all  along  : “ Boy,  be  for  ever  grateful  to  all 
friends,  but  especially  unto  them  which  brought  you  up  by  hand  !” 

“ Good-bye,  Joe  ! ” 

“ God  bless  you,  Pip,  old  chap  !” 

I had  never  parted  from  him  before,  and  what  with  my  feelings  and  what  with 
soap-suds,  I could  at  first  see  no  stars  from  the  chaise-cart.  But  they  twinkled 
out  one  by  one,  without  throwing  any  light  on  the  questions  why  on  earth  I was 
going  to  play  at  Miss  Iiavisham’s,  and  what  on  earth  I was  expected  to  play  at. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Mr.  Pumblechook’s  premises  in  the  High-street  of  the  market  town,  were  of  a 
peppercorny  and  farinaceous  character,  as  the  premises  of  a corn-chandler  and 
seedsman  should  be.  It  appeared  to  me  that  he  must  be  a very  happy  man  indeed, 
to  have  so  many  little  drawers  in  his  shop  : and  I wondered  when  I peeped  into 
one  or  two  on  the  lower  tiers,  and  saw  the  tied-up  brown  paper  packets  inside, 
whether  the  flower-seeds  and  bulbs  ever  wanted  of  a fine  day  to  break  out  of  those 
jails,  and  bloom. 

It  was  in  the  early  morning  after  my  arrival  that  I entertained  this  speculation. 
On  the  previous  night,  I had  been  sent  straight  to  bed  in  an  attic  with  a sloping 
roof,  which  was  so  low  in  the  corner  where  the  bedstead  was,  that  I calculated 
the  tiles  as  being  within  a foot  of  my  eyebrows.  In  the  same  early  morning,  I 
discovered  a singular  affinity  between  seeds  and  corduroys.  Mr.  Pumblechook 
wore  corduroys,  and  so  did  his  shopman  ; and  somehow,  there  was  a general  air 
and  flavour  about  the  corduroys,  so  much  in  the  nature  of  seeds,  and  a general  air 
and  flavour  about  the  seeds,  so  much  in  he  nature  of  corduroys,  that  I hardly 
knew  which  was  which.  The  same  opportunity  served  me  for  noticing  that  Mr. 
Pumblechook  appeared  to  conduct  his  business  by  looking  across  the  street  at  the 
saddler,  who  appeared  to  transact  his  business  by  keeping  his  eye  on  the  coach- 
maker,  who  appeared  to  get  on  in  life  by  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
contemplating  the  baker,  who  in  his  turn  folded  his  arms  and  stared  at  the  grocer, 
who  stood  at  his  door  and  yawned  at  the  chemist.  The  watchmaker,  always  poring 
over  a little  desk  with  a magnifying  glass  at  his  eye,  and  always  inspected  by  a 
group  in  smock-frocks  poring  over  him  through  the  glass  of  his  shop-window, 
seemed  to  be  about  the  only  person  in  the  High-street  whose  trade  engaged  his 
attention. 

Mr.  Pumblechook  and  I breakfasted  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  parlour  behind  th« 
shop,  while  the  shopman  took  his  mug  of  tea  and  hunch  of  bread-and  -butter  on 


At  Miss  Havisham' s. 


255 


ft  sack  of  peas  in  the  front  premises.  I considered  Mr.  Pumblechook  wretched 
company.  Besides  being  possessed  by  my  sister’s  idea  that  a mortifying  and 
penitential  character  ought  to  be  imparted  to  my  diet — besides  giving  me  as  much 
crumb  as  possible  in  combination  with  as  little  butter,  and  putting  such  a quan- 
tity of  warm  water  into  my  milk  that  it  would  have  been  more  candid  to  have  left 
the  milk  out  altogether — his  conversation  consisted  of  nothing  but  arithmetic.  On 
my  politely  bidding  him  Good  morning,  he  said,  pompously,  “ Seven  times  nine, 
boy  ? ” And  how  should  / be  able  to  answer,  dodged  in  that  way,  in  a strange 
place,  on  an  empty  stomach  ! I was  hungry,  but  before  I had  swallowed  a morsel, 
he  began  a running  sum  that  lasted  all  through  the  breakfast.  “ Seven  ? ” “ And 
four?”  “ And  eight  ? ” “And  six?”  “ And  two  ? ” “And  ten?”  And  so 
on.  And  after  each  figure  was  disposed  of,  it  was  as  much  as  I could  do  to  get 
a bite  or  a sup,  before  the  next  came  ; while  he  sat  at  his  ease  guessing  nothing, 
and  eating  bacon  and  hot  roll,  in  (if  I may  be  allowed  the  expression)  a gorging 
and  gormandising  manner. 

For  such  reasons  I was  very  glad  when  ten  o’clock  came  and  we  started  for 
Miss  Havisham’s;  though  I was  not  at  all  at  my  ease  regarding  the  manner  in 
which  I should  acquit  myself  under  that  lady’s  roof.  Within  a quarter  of  an  hour 
we  came  to  Miss  Havisham’s  house,  which  was  of  old  brick,  and  dismal,  and  had 
a great  many  iron  bars  to  it.  Some  of  the  windows  had  been  walled  up  ; of 
those  that  remained,  all  the  lower  were  rustily  barred.  There  was  a court-yard  in 
Font,  and  that  was  barred ; so,  we  had  to  wait,  after  ringing  the  bell,  until  some 
rne  should  come  to  open  it.  While  we  waited  at  the  gate,  I peeped  in  (even 
then  Mr.  Pumblechook  said,  “ And  fourteen  ? ” but  I pretended  not  to  hear  him), 
and  saw  that  at  the  side  of  the  house  there  was  a large  brewery.  No  brewing 
was  going  on  in  it,  and  none  seemed  to  have  gone  on  for  a long  time. 

A window  was  raised,  and  a clear  voice  demanded  “ What  name  ? ” To  which 
my  conductor  replied,  “Pumblechook.”  The  voice  returned,  “Quite  right,” 
and  the  window  was  shut  again,  and  a young  lady  came  across  the  court-yard, 
with  keys  in  her  hand. 

“ This,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  “ is  Pip.” 

“ This  is  Pip,  is  it  ?”  returned  the  young  lady,  who  was  very  pretty  and  seemed 
very  proud  ; “ come  in,  Pip.” 

Mi.  Pumblechook  was  coming  in  also,  when  she  stopped  him  with  the  gate. 

“ Oh  ! ” she  said.  “ Did  you  wish  to  see  Miss  Havisham  ? ” 

“ If  Miss  Havisham  wished  to  see  me,”  returned  Mr.  Pumblechook,  discomfited. 

“ Ah ! ” said  the  girl ; “ but  you  see  she  don’t.” 

She  said  it  so  finally,  and  in  such  an  undiscussible  way,  that  Mr.  Pumblechook, 
though  in  a condition  of  ruffled  dignity,  could  not  protest.  But  he  eyed  me 
severely — as  if  / had  done  anything  to  him  ! — and  departed  with  the  words 
reproachfully  delivered  : “ Boy  ! Let  your  behaviour  here  be  a credit  unto  them 
which  brought  you  up  by  hand  ! ” I was  not  free  from  apprehension  that  he 
would  come  back  to  propound  through  the  gate,  “ And  sixteen  ?”  But  he  didn’t. 

My  young  conductress  locked  the  gate,  and  we  went  across  the  court-yard.  It 
was  paved  and  clean,  but  grass  was  growing  in  every  crevice.  The  brewery 
buildings  had  a little  lane  of  communication  with  it ; and  the  wooden  gates  of  that 
lane  stood  open,  and  all  the  brewery  beyond  stood  open,  away  to  the  high 
enclosing  wall;  and  all  was  empty  and  disused.  The  cold  wind  seemed  to  blow 
colder  there,  than  outside  the  gate ; and  it  made  a shrill  noise  in  howling  in  and 
out  at  the  open  sides  of  the  brewery,  like  the  noise  of  wind  in  the  rigging  of  a 
ship  at  sea. 

She  saw  me  looking  at  it,  and  she  saidv  “ You  could  drink  without  hurt  all  the 
strong  beer  that’s  brewed  there  now,  boy.” 


Great  Expectations. 


256 


“ I should  think  I could,  miss,”  said  I,  in  a shy  way. 

“ Better  not  try  to  brew  beer  there  now,  or  it  would  turn  out  sour,  boy;  don’t 
you  think  so  ? ” 

c‘  It  looks  like  it,  miss.” 

“ Not  that  anybody  means  to  try,”  she  added,  “ for  that’s  all  done  with,  and 
the  place  will  stand  as  idle  as  it  is,  till  it  falls.  As  to  strong  beer,  there’s  enough 
of  it  in  the  cellars  already,  to  drown  the  Manor  House.” 

“ Is  that  the  name  of  this  house,  miss  ? ” 

“ One  of  its  names,  boy.” 

“ It  has  more  than  one,  then,  miss  ? ” 

“ One  more.  Its  other  name  was  Satis  ; which  is  Greek,  or  Latin,  or  Hebrew, 
or  all  three — or  all  one  to  me — for  enough.” 

“ Enough  House  ! ” said  I : “ that’s  a curious  name,  miss.” 

“ Yes,”  she  replied  ; “ but  it  meant  more  than  it  said.  It  meant,  when  it  was 
given,  that  whoever  had  this  house,  could  want  nothing  else.  They  must  have 
been  easily  satisfied  in  those  days,  I should  think.  But  don’t  loiter,  boy.” 

Though  she  called  me  “boy”  so  often,  and  with  a carelessness  that  was  far 
from  complimentary,  she  was  of  about  my  own  age.  She  seemed  much  older 
than  I,  of  course,  being  a girl,  and  beautiful  and  self-possessed ; and  she  was  as 
scornful  of  me  as  if  she  had  been  one-and-twenty,  and  a queen. 

We  went  into  the  house  by  a side  door — the  great  front  entrance  had  two  chains 
across  it  outside — and  the  first  thing  I noticed  was,  that  the  passages  were  all  dark, 
and  that  she  had  left  a candle  burning  there.  She  took  it  up,  and  we  went  through 
more  passages  and  up  a staircase,  and  still  it  was  all  dark,  and  only  the  candle 
lighted  us. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  door  of  a room,  and  she  said,  “ Go  in.” 

I answered,  more  in  shyness  than  politeness,  “ After  you,  miss.” 

To  this,  she  returned  : “ Don’t  be  ridiculous,  boy ; I am  not  going  in.”  And 
scornfu'ly  walked  away,  and — what  was  worse — took  the  candle  with  her. 

This  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  I was  half  afraid.  However,  the  only  thing 
to  be  done  being  to  knock  at  the  door,  I knocked,  and  was  told  from  within  to 
enter.  I entered,  therefore,  and  found  myself  in  a pretty  large  room,  well  lighted 
with  wax  candles.  No  glimpse  of  daylight  was  to  be  seen  in  it.  It  was  a dressing- 
room,  as  I supposed  from  the  furniture,  though  much  of  it  was  of  forms  and  uses 
then  quite  unknown  to  me.  But  prominent  in  it  was  a draped  table  with  a gilded 
looking-glass,  and  that  I made  out  at  first  sight  to  be  a fine  lady’s  dressing-table. 

Whether  I should  have  made  out  this  object  so  soon,  if  there  had  been  no  fine 
lady  sitting  at  it,  I cannot  say.  In  an  arm-chair,  with  an  elbow  resting  on  the 
table  and  her  head  leaning  on  that  hand,  sat  the  strangest  lady  I have  ever  seen, 
or  shall  ever  see. 

She  was  dressed  in  rich  materials — satins,  and  lace,  and  silks — all  of  white. 
Her  shoes  were  white.  And  she  had  a long  white  veil  dependent  from  her  hair, 
and  she  had  bridal  flowers  in  her  hair,  but  her  hair  was  white.  Some  bright 
jewels  sparkled  on  her  neck  and  on  her  hands,  and  some  other  jewels  lay  sparkling 
on  the  table.  Dresses,  less  splendid  than  the  dress  she  wore,  and  half-packed 
trunks,  were  scattered  about.  She  had  not  quite  finished  dressing,  for  she  had 
but  one  shoe  on — the  other  was  on  the  table  near  her  hand — her  veil  was  but  half 
arranged,  her  watch  and  chain  were  not  put  on,  and  some  lace  for  her  bosom  la) 
with  those  trinkets,  and  with  her  handkerchief,  and  gloves,  and  some  flowers,  ana 
a Prayer-book,  all  confusedly  heaped  about  the  looking-glass. 

It  was  not  in  the  first  few  moments  that  I saw  all  these  things,  though  I saw 
more  of  them  in  the  first  moments  than  might  be  supposed.  But,  I saw  that 
everything  within  my  view  which  ought  to  be  white,  had  been  white  long  ago, 


Miss  Havisham . 


257 


and  had  last  its  lustre,  and  was  faded  and  yellow.  I saw  that  the  bride  within  the 
bridal  dress  had  withered  like  the  dress,  and  like  the  flowers,  and  had  no  brightness 
left  but  the  brightness  of  her  sunken  eyes.  I saw  that  the  dress  had  been  put  upon 
the  rounded  figure  of  a young  woman,  and  that  the  figure  upon  which  it  now  hin:g 
loose,  had  shrunk  to  skin  and  bone.  Once,  I had  been  taken  to  see  some  ghastly 
waxwork  at  the  Fair,  representing  I know  not  what  impossible  personage  lying  in 
state.  Once,  I had  been  taken  to  one  of  our  old  marsh  churches  to  see  a skeleton 
in  the  ashes  of  a rich  dress,  that  had  been  dug  out  of  a vault  under  the  church 
pavement.  Now,  waxwork  and  skeleton  seemed  to  have  dark  eyes  that  moved 
and  looked  at  me.  I should  have  cried  out,  if  I could. 

“ Who  is  it  ?”  said  the  lady  at  the  table. 

“ Pip,  ma’am.” 

“ Pip?” 

“ Mr.  Pumblechook’s  boy,  ma’am.  Come — to  play.” 

“ Come  nearer  ; let  me  look  at  you.  Come  close.” 

It  was  when  I stood  before  her,  avoiding  her  eyes,  that  I took  note  of  the 
surrounding  objects  in  detail,  and  saw  that  her  watch  had  stopped  at  twenty 
minutes  to  nine,  and  that  a clock  in  the  room  had  stopped  at  twenty  minutes  to 
nine. 

“ Look  at  me,”  said  Miss  Havisham.  “You  are  not  afraid  of  a woman  who 
has  never  seen  the  sun  since  you  were  bom  ?” 

I regret  to  state  that  I was  not  afraid  of  telling  the  enormous  lie  comprehended 
in  the  answer  “No.” 

“ Do  you  know  what  I touch  here  ?”  she  said,  laying  her  hands,  one  upon  the 
other,  on  her  left  side. 

“ Yes,  ma’am.”  (It  made  me  think  of  the  young  man.) 

“ What  do  I touch  ?” 

“ Your  heart.” 

“ Broken !” 

She  uttered  the  word  with  an  eager  look,  and  with  strong  emphasis,  and  with  a 
weird  smile  that  had  a kind  of  boast  in  it.  Afterwards,  she  kept  her  hands  there 
for  a little  while,  and  slowly  took  them  away  as  if  they  were  heavy. 

“ I am  tired,”  said  Miss  Havisham.  “ I want  diversion,  and  I have  done  with 
nen  and  women.  Play.” 

I think  it  will  be  conceded  by  my  most  disputatious  reader,  that  she  could  hardly 
have  directed  an  unfortunate  boy  to  do  anything  in  the  wide  world  more  difficult 
to  be  done  under  the  circumstances. 

“ I sometimes  have  sick  fancies,”  she  went  on,  “and  I have  a sick  fancy  that  I 
want  to  see  some  play.  There,  there!”  with  an  impatient  movement  of  the 
fingers  of  her  right  hand ; “ play,  play,  play  ! ” 

For  a moment,  with  the  fear  of  my  sister’s  working  me  before  my  eyes,  I had  a 
desperate  idea  of  starting  round  the  room  in  the  assumed  character  of  Mr.  Pumble- 
chook’s chaise-cart.  But,  I felt  myself  so  unequal  to  the  performance  that  I gave  it 
up,  and  stood  looking  at  Miss  Havisham  in  what  I suppose  she  took  for  a dogged 
manner,  inasmuch  as  she  said,  when  we  had  taken  a good  look  at  each  other : 

“ Are  you  sullen  and  obstinate  ?” 

“ No,  ma’am,  I am  very  sorry  for  you,  and  very  sorry  I can’t  play  just  now.  If 
you  compHin  of  me  I shall  get  into  trouble  with  my  sister,  so  I would  do  it  if  I 

could ; but  it’s  so  new  here,  and  so  strange,  and  so  fine — and  melancholy ” 

I stopped,  fearing  I might  say  too  much,  or  had  already  said  it,  and  we  took 
another  look  at  each  other. 

Before  she  spoke  again,  she  turned  her  eyes  from  me,  and  looked  at  the  dress 
she  wore,  and  at  the  dressing-table,  and  finally  at  herself  in  the  looking-glass. 

9 ‘ ‘ 


Great  Expectations . 


258 

“ So  new  to  him,”  she  muttered,  “ so  old  to  me  ; so  strange  to  him,  so  familial 
to  me  ; so  melancholy  to  both  of  us  ! Call  Estella.” 

As  she  was  still  looking  at  the  reflection  of  herself,  I thought  she  was  still 
talking  to  herself,  and  kept  quiet. 

“ Call  Estella,”  she  repeated,  flashing  a look  at  me.  “ You  can  do  that.  Call 
Estella.  At  the  door.” 

To  stand  in  the  dark  in  a mysterious  passage  of  an  unknown  house,  bawling 
Estella  to  a scornful  young  lady  neither  visible  nor  responsive,  and  feeling  it  a 
dreadful  liberty  so  to  roar  out  her  name,  was  almost  as  bad  as  playing  to  order 
But,  she  answered  at  last,  and  her  light  came  along  the  dark  passage  like  a star. 

Miss  Havisham  beckoned  her  to  come  close,  and  took  up  a jewel  from  the  table, 
and  tried  its  effect  upon  her  fair  young  bosom  and  against  her  pretty  brown  hair. 
“Your  own,  one  day,  my  dear,  and  you  will  use  it  well.  Let  me  see  you  play 
cards  with  this  boy.” 

“ With  this  boy  ! Why,  he  is  a common  labouring-boy  !” 

I thought  I overheard  Miss  Havisham  answer — only  it  seemed  so  unlikely — 
“ Well  ? You  can  break  his  heart.” 

“ What  do  you  play,  boy  ?”  asked  Estella  of  myself,  with  the  greatest  disdain. 

“Nothing  but  beggar  my  neighbour,  Miss.” 

“ Beggar  him,”  said  Miss  Havisham  to  Estella.  So  we  sat  down  to  cards. 

It  was  then  I began  to  understand  that  everything  in  the  room  had  stopped,  like 
the  watch  and  the  clock,  a long  time  ago.  I noticed  that  Miss  Havisham  put 
down  the  jewel  exactly  on  the  spot  from  which  she  had  taken  it  up.  As  Estella 
dealt  the  cards,  I glanced  at  the  dressing-table  again,  and  saw  that  the  shoe  upon 
it,  once  white,  now  yellow,  had  never  been  worn.  I glanced  down  at  the  foot 
from  which  the  shoe  was  absent,  and  saw  that  the  silk  stocking  on  it,  once  white, 
now  yellow,  had  been  trodden  ragged.  Without  this  arrest  of  everything,  this 
standing  still  of  all  the  pale  decayed  objects,  not  even  the  withered  bridal  dress  on 
the  collapsed  form  could  have  looked  so  like  grave-clothes,  or  the  long  veil  so  like 
a shroud. 

80  she  sat,  corpse-like,  as  we  played  at  cards  ; the  frillings  and  trimmings  on 
her  bridal  dress,  looking  like  earthy  paper.  I knew  nothing  then  of  the  disco- 
veries that  are  occasionally  made  of  bodies  buried  in  ancient  times,  which  fall  to 
powder  in  the  moment  of  being  distinctly  seen  ; but,  I have  often  thought  since, 
that  she  must  have  looked  as  if  the  admission  of  the  natural  light  of  day  would 
have  struck  her  to  dust. 

“ He  calls  the  knaves,  Jacks,  this  boy  ! ” said  Estella  with  disdain,  before  our 
first  game  was  out.  “ And  what  coarse  hands  he  has  ! And  what  thick  boots  !” 

I had  never  thought  of  being  ashamed  of  my  hands  before  ; but  I began  to 
consider  them  a very  indifferent  pair.  Her  contempt  for  me  was  so  strong,  that  it 
became  infectious,  and  I caught  it. 

She  won  the  game,  and  I dealt.  I misdealt,  as  was  only  natural,  when  I knew 
she  was  lying  in  wait  for  me  to  do  wrong ; and  she  denounced  me  for  a stupid, 
clumsy  labouring-boy. 

“ You  say  nothing  of  her,”  remarked  Miss  Havisham  to  me,  as  she  looked  on. 
“ She  says  many  hard  things  of  you,  yet  you  say  nothing  of  her.  What  do  you 
think  of  her  ? ” 

“ I don’t  like  to  say,”  I stammered. 

“ Tell  me  in  my  ear,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  bending  down# 

**  I think  she  is  very  proud,”  I replied,  in  a whisper. 

“ Anything  else  ? ” 

“ I think  she  is  very  pretty.” 

14  Anything  else  ? ” 


E Sella. 


259 


“I  think  she  is  very  insulting.”  (She  was  looking  at  me  then  with  a Lcok  of 
supreme  aversion.) 

“ Anything  else  ? ” 

“ I think  I should  like  to  go  home.” 

“And  never  see  hei  again,  though  she  is  so  pretty?” 

“I  am  not  sure  that  I shouldn’t  like  to  see  her  again,  but  I should  like  to  go 
home  now.” 

“ You  shall  go  soon,”  said  Miss  Havisham  aloud.  “ Play  the  game  out.” 

Saving  for  the  one  weird  smile  at  first,  I should  have  felt  almost  sure  that  Mis  ; 
Havisham’s  face  could  not  smile.  It  had  dropped  into  a watchful  ar?d  brooding 
expression — most  likely  when  all  the  things  about  her  had  become  transfixed — and 
it  looked  as  if  nothing  could  ever  lift  it  up  again.  Her  chest  had  dropped,  so  that 
she  stooped  ; and  her  voice  had  dropped,  so  that  she  spoke  low,  and  with  a dead 
lull  upon  her ; altogether,  she  had  the  appearance  of  having  dropped,  body  and 
soul,  within  and  without,  under  the  weight  of  a crushing  blow. 

I played  the  game  to  an  end  with  Estella,  and  she  beggared  me.  She  threw 
the  cards  down  on  the  table  when  she  had  won  them  all,  as  if  she  despised  them 
for  having  been  won  of  me. 

“ When  shall  I have  you  here  again  ?”  said  Miss  Havisham.  “Let  me  think.” 

I was  beginning* to  remind  her  that  to-day  was  Wednesday,  when  she  checked 
me  with  her  former  impatient  movement  of  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand. 

“ There,  there  ! I know  nothing  of  days  of  the  week  ; I know  nothing  of  weeks 
of  the  year.  Come  again  after  six  days.  You  hear  ? ” 

“Yes,  ma’am.” 

“ Estella,  take  him  down.  Let  him  have  •'mething  to  eat,  and  let  him  roam 
and  look  about  him  while  he  eats.  Go,  Pip.” 

I followed  the  candle  down,  as  I had  followe  i the  candle  up,  and  she  stood  it 
in  the  place  where  we  had  found  it.  Until  she  opened  the  side  entrance,  I had 
fancied,  without  thinking  about  it,  that  it  must  necessarily  be  night-time.  The 
rush  of  the  daylight  quite  confounded  me,  and  made  me  feel  as  if  I had  been  in 
the  candlelight  of  the  strange  room  many  hours. 

“ You  are  to  wait  here,  you  boy,”  said  Estella  ; and  disappeared  and  closed  the 
door. 

I took  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  in  the  court-yard,  to  look  at  my  coarse 
hands  and  my  common  boots.  My  opinion  of  those  accessories  was  not  favour  - 
able. They  had  never  troubled  me  before,  but  they  troubled  me  now,  as  vulgar 
appendages.  I determined  to  ask  Joe  why  he  had  ever  taught  me  to  call  those 
picture-cards,.  Jacks,  which  ought  to  be  called  knaves.  I wished  Joe  had  been 
rather  more  genteelly  brought  up,  and  then  I should  have  been  so  too. 

She  came  back,  with  some  bread  and  meat  and  a little  mug  of  beer.  She  put 
the  mug  down  on  the  stones  of  the  yard,  and  gave  me  the  bread  and  meat  without 
looking  at  me,  as  insolently  as  if  I were  a dog  in  disgrace.  I was  so  humiliated, 
hurt,  spurned,  offended,"  angry,  sorry — I cannot  hit  upon  the  right  name  for  the 
smart — God  knows  what  its  name  was — that  tears  started  to  my  eyes.  The 
moment  they  sprang  there,  the  girl  looked  at  me  with  a quick  delight  in  having 
been  the  cause  of  them.  This  gave  r .e  power  to  keep  them  back  and  to  look  at 
her : so,  she  gave  a contemptuous  toss — but  with  a sense,  I thought,  of  having 
made  too  sure  that  I was  so  wounded — and  left  me. 

But,  when  she  was  gone,  I looked  about  me  for  a place  to  hide  my  face  in,  and 
got  \ ehind  one  of  the  gates  in  the  brewery-lane,  and  leaned  my  sleeve  against 
the  wall  there,  and  leaned  my  forehead  on  it  and  cried.  As  I cried,  I kicked  the 
wall,  and  took  a hard  twist  at  my  hair;  so  bitter  were  my  feelipgs,  and  so  sharp 
was  the  smart  without  a name,  that  needed  counteraction. 


26o 


Greut  Expectations . 


My  sister’s  bringing  up  had  made  me  sensitive.  In  the  little  worl  1 in  which 
children  have  their  existence,  whosoever  brings  them  up,  there  is  nothing  so  finely 
perceived  and  so  finely  felt,  as  injustice.  It  may  be  only  small  injustice  that  the 
child  can  be  exposed  to ; but  the  child  is  small,  and  its  world  is  small,  and  its 
rocking-horse  stands  as  many  hands  high,  according  to  scale,  as  a big-boned 
Irish  hunter.  Within  myself,  I had  sustained,  from  my  babyhood,  a perpetual 
conflict  with  injustice.  I ha  I known,  from  the  time  when  I could  speak,  that  my 
sister,  in  her  capricious  and  violent  coercion,  was  unjust  to  me.  I had  cherished 
a profound  conviction  that  her  bringing  me  up  by  hand,  gave  her  no  right  to  bring 
me  up  by  jerks.  Through  all  my  punishments,  disgraces,  fasts  and  vigils,  and 
other  penitential  performances,  I had  nursed  this  assurance  ; and  to  my  com- 
muning so  much  with  it,  in  a solitary  and  unprotected  way,  I in  great  part  refer  the 
fact  that  I was  morally  timid  and  very  sensitive. 

I got  rid  of  my  injured  feelings  for  the  time,  by  kicking  them  into  the  b-ewery- 
wall,  and  twisting  them  out  of  my  hair,  and  then  I smoothed  my  face  with  my 
sleeve,  and  came  from  behind  the  gate.  The  bread  and  meat  were  acceptable, 
and  the  beer  was  warming  and  tingling,  and  I was  soon  in  spirits  to  look  about 
me. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  a deserted  place,  down  to  the  pigeon-house  in  the  brewery- 
yard,  which  had  been  blown  crooked  on  its  pole  by  some  high  wind,  and  would 
have  made  the  pigeons  think  themselves  at  sea,  if  there  had  been  any  pigeons 
there  to  be  rocked  by  it.  But,  there  were  no  pigeons  in  the  dcve-cot,  no  horses 
in  the  stable,  no  pigs  in  the  sty,  no  malt  in  the  store-house,  no  smells  of  grains 
and  beer  in  the  copper  or  the  vat.  All  the  uses  and  scents  of  the  brewery  might 
have  evaporated  with  its  last  reek  of  smoke.  In  a by-yard,  there  was  a wilderness 
of  empty  casks,  which  had  a certain  sour  remembrance  of  better  days  lingering 
about  them  ; but  it  was  too  sour  to  be  accepted  as  a sample  of  the  beer  that  was 
gone — and  in  this  respect  I remember  those  recluses  as  being  like  most  others. 

Behind  the  furthest  end  of  the  brewery,  was  a rank  garden  with  an  old  wall : 
not  so  high  but  that  I could  struggle  up  and  hold  on  long  enough  to  look  over  it, 
and  see  that  the  rank  garden  was  the  garden  of  the  house,  and  that  it  was  over- 
grown with  tangled  weeds,  but  that  there  was  a track  upon  the  green  and  yellow 
paths,  as  if  some  one  sometimes  walked  there,  and  that  Estella  was  walking 
away  from  me  even  then.  But  she  seemed  to  be  everywhere.  For,  when  I 
yielded  to  the  temptation  presented  by  the  casks,  and  began  to  walk  on  them,  I 
saw  her  walking  on  them  at  the  end  of  the  yard  of  casks.  She  had  her  back 
towards  me,  and  held  her  pretty  brown  hair  spread  out  in  her  two  hands,  and 
never  looked  round,  and  passed  out  of  my  view  directly.  So,  in  the  brewery 
itself — by  which  I mean  the  large  paved  lofty  place  in  which  they  used  to  make 
the  beer,  and  where  the  brewing  utensils  still  were.  When  I first  went  into  it, 
and,  rather  oppressed  by  its  gloom,  stood  near  the  door  looking  about  me,  I saw 
her  pass  among  the  extinguished  fires,  and  ascend  some  light  iron  stairs,  and  go 
out  by  a gallery  high  overhead,  as  if  she  were  going  out  into  the  sky. 

It  was  in  this  place,  and  at  this  moment,  that  a strange  thing  happened  to  my 
fancy.  I thought  it  a strange  thing  then,  and  I thought  it  a stranger  thing  long 
afterwards.  I turned  my  eyes — a little  dimmed  by  looking  up  at  the  frosty  light — - 
towards  a great  wooden  beam  in  a low  nook  of  the  building  near  me  on  my  right 
hand,  and  I saw  a figure  hanging  there  by  the  neck.  A figure  all  in  yellow  white, 
with  but  one  shoe  to  the  feet ; and  it  hung  so,  that  I could  see  that  the  faded 
trimmings  of  the  dress  were  like  earthy  paper,  and  that  the  face  was  Miss 
Havisham’s,  with  a movement  going  over  the  whole  countenance  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  call  to  me.  In  the  terror  of  seeing  the  figure,  and  in  the  terror  of  being 
certain  that  it  had  not  been  there  a moment  before,  I at  first  ran  from  it,  and 


I find  that  I am  a Lw  fellow.  261 


!hen  ran  towards  it.  And  my  terror  was  greatest  of  all  when  I found  no  figure 
there. 

•Nothing  less  than  the  frosty  light  of  the  cheerful  sky,  the  sight  of  people  passing 
beyond  the  bars  of  the  court-yard  gate,  and  the  reviving  influence  of  the  rest  of  the 
bread  and  meat  and  beer,  could  have  brought  me  round.  Even  with  those  aids,  I 
might  not  have  come  to  myself  as  soon  as  I did,  but  that  I saw  Estella  approaching 
with  the  keys,  to  let  me  out.  She  would  have  some  fair  reason  for  looking  down 
upon  me,  I thought,  if  she  saw  me  frightened  ; and  she  should  have  no  fair  reason. 

She  gave  me  a triumphant  glance  in  passing  me,  as  if  she  rejoiced  that  my 
hands  were  so  coarse  and  my  boots  were  so  thick,  and  she  opened  the  gate,  a «d 
stood  holding  it.  I was  passing  out  without  looking  at  her,  when  she  touche  * 
me  with  a taunting  hand. 

“ Why  don’t  you  cry  ?” 

“ Because  I don’t  want  to.” 

“ You  do,”  said  she.  “You  have  been  crying  till  you  are  half  blind,  and  yoi 
are  near  crying  again  now.” 

She  laughed  contemptuously,  pushed  me  out,  and  locked  the  gate  upon  me.  I 
went  straight  to  Mr.  Pumblechook’s,  and  was  immensely  relieved  to  find  him  not  at 
home.  So,  leaving  word  with  the  shopman  on  what  day  I was  wanted  at  Miss 
Havisham’s  again,  I set  off  on  the  four-mile  walk  to  our  forge  ; pondering,  as  I 
went  along,  on  all  I had  seen,  and  deeply  revolving  that  I was  a common  labour- 
ing-boy ; that  my  hands  were  coarse  ; that  my  boots  were  thick ; that  I had  fallen  into 
a despicable  habit  of  calling  knaves  Jacks  ; that  I was  much  more  ignorant  than 
I had  considered  myself  last  night,  and  generally  that  I was  in  a low-lived  bad  way. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

When  I reached  home,  my  sister  was  very  curious  to  know  all  about  Miss  Havis- 
ham’s, and  asked  a number  of  questions.  And  I soon  found  myself  getting 
heavily  bumped  from  behind  in  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the  small  of  the  back, 
and  having  my  face  ignominiously  shoved  against  the  kitchen  wall,  because  I did 
not  answer  those  questions  at  sufficient  length. 

If  a dread  of  not  being  understood  be  hidden  in  the  breasts  of  other  voung 
people  to  anything  like  the  extent  to  which  it  used  to  be  hidden  in  mine — which 
I consider  probable,  as  I have  no  particular  reason  to  suspect  myself  of  having 
been  a monstrosity — it  is  the  key  to  many  reservations.  I felt  convinced  that 
if  I described  Miss  Havisham’s  as  my  eyes  had  seen  it,  I should  not  be  under- 
stood. Not  only  that,  but  I felt  convinced  that  Miss  Havisham  too  would  not  be 
understood  ; and  although  she  was  perfectly  incomprehensible  to  me,  I entertained 
an  impression  that  there  would  be  something  coarse  and  treacherous  in  my  drag- 
ging her  as  she  really  was  (to  say  nothing  of  Miss  Estella)  before  the  contempla- 
tion of  Mrs.  Joe.  Consequently,  I said  as  little  as  I could,  and  had  my  face 
shoved  against  the  kitchen  wall. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  that  bullying  old  Pumblechook,  preyed  upon  by  a 
devouring  curiosity  to  be  informed  of  all  I had  seen  and  heard,  came  gaping  over 
in  his  chaise-cart  at  tea-time,  to  have  the  details  divulged  to  him.  And  the  mere 
sight  of  the  torment,  with  his  fishy  eyes  and  mouth  open,  his  sandy  hair  inquisi- 
tively on  end,  and  his  waistcoat  heaving  with  windy  arithmetic,  made  me  vicious 
in  my  reticence. 

“Well,  boy,”  Uncle  Pumblechook  began,  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  vn  the 
chair  of  honour  by  the  fire.  “ How  did  you  get  on  up  town  ?” 


262 


Great  Expectations . 


I answered,  “ Pretty  well,  sir,”  and  my  sister  shook  her  fist  at  me. 

“ Pretty  well  ?”  Mr.  Pumblechook  repeated.  “ Pretty  well  is  no  answer.  TeL 
us  what  you  mean  by  pretty  well,  boy  ?” 

Whitewash  on  the  forehead  hardens  the  brain  into  a state  of  obstinacy  perhaps. 
Anyhow,  with  whitewash  from  the  wall  on  my  forehead,  my  obstinacy  was  ada- 
mantine. I reflected  for  some  time,  and  then  answered  as  if  I had  discovered  a 
new  idea,  “I  mean  pretty  well.” 

My  sister  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience  was  going  to  fly  at  me — I had  no 
shadow  of  defence,  for  Joe  was  busy  in  the  forge — when  Mr.  Pumblechook  inter- 
posed with  “ No  ! Don’t  lose  your  temper.  Leave  this  lad  to  me,  ma’am  ; leave 
this  lad  to  me.”  Mr.  Pumblechook  then  turned  me  towards  him,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  cut  my  hair,  and  said  : 

“ First  (to  get  our  thoughts  in  order'i  : Forty- three  pence  ? ” 

I calculated  the  consequences  of  replying  “ Four  Hundred  Pound,”  and  finding 
them  against  me,  went  as  near  the  answer  as  I could  — which  was  somewhere 
about  eightpence  off.  Mr.  Pumblechook  then  put  me  through  my  pence-table 
from  “twelve  pence  make  one  shilling,”  up  to  “forty  pence  make  three  and 
fourpence,”  and  then  triumphantly  demanded,  as  if  he  had  done  for  me,  “ Now ! 
How  much  is  forty-three  pence  ? ” To  which  I replied,  after  a long  interval  of 
reflection,  “ I don’t  know.”  And  I was  so  aggravated  that  I almost  doubt  if  I 
did  know. 

Mr.  Pumblechook  worked  his  head  like  a screw  to  screw  it  out  of  me,  and  said, 
“ Is  forty-three  pence  seven  and  sixpence  three  fardens,  for  instance  ?” 

“Yes!”  said  I.  And  although  my  sister  instantly  boxed  my  ears,  it  was 
highly  gratifying  to  me  to  see  that  the  answer  spoilt  his  joke,  and  brought  him  to 
a dead  stop. 

“ Boy  ! What  like  is  Miss  Havisham  ? ” Mr.  Pumblechook  began  again  when 
he  had  recovered  ; folding  his  arms  tight  on  his  chest  and  applying  the  screw. 

“ Very  tall  and  dark,”  I told  him. 

“ Is  she,  uncle  ? ” asked  my  sister. 

Mr.  Pumblechook  winked  assent ; from  which  I at  once  inferred  that  he  had 
never  seen  Miss  Havisham,  for  she  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

“Good!”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  conceitedly.  (“This  is  the  way  to  have 
him  ! We  are  beginning  to  hold  our  own,  I think,  Mum  ?”) 

“Iam  sure,  uncle,”  returned  Mrs.  Joe,  “ I wish  you  had  him  always:  you 
know  so  well  how  to  deal  with  him.” 

“ Now,  boy ! What  was  she  a doing  of,  when  you  went  in  to-day  ? ” asked 
Mr.  Pumblechook. 

“ She  was  sitting,”  I answered,  “ in  a black  velvet  coach.” 

Mr.  Pumblechook  and  Mrs.  Joe  stared  at  one  another — as  they  well  might — 
and  both  repeated,  “ In  a black  velvet  coach  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  I.  “ And  Miss  Estella — that’s  her  niece,  I think— handed  her  in 
cake  and  wine  at  the  coach-window,  on  a gold  plate.  And  we  all  had  cake  and 
wine  on  gold  plates.  And  I got  up  behind  the  coach  to  eat  mine,  because  she 
told  me  to.” 

“Was  anybody  else  there  ? ” asked  Mt  Pumblechook. 

“ Four  dogs,”  said  I. 

“ Large  or  small  ? ” 

“ Immense,”  said  I.  “ And  they  fought  for  veal  cutlets  out  of  a silvei 

basket.” 

Mr.  Pumblechook  and  Mrs.  Joe  stared  at  one  another  again,  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. I was  perfectly  frantic—  a reckless  witness  under  the  torture — and  would 
have  told  them  anything. 


t describ€  Mm  Ha  vis  bam' s. 


263 


“ Where  was  this  coach,  in  the  name  of  gracious  ? ” asked  my  sister. 

“In  Miss  Havisham’s  room.”  They  stared  again.  “But  there  weren’t  any 
horses  to  it.”  I added  this  saving  clause,  in  the  moment  of  rejecting  four  richly 
caparisoned  coursers,  which  I had  had  wild  thoughts  of  harnessing. 

“ Can  this  be  possible,  uncle  ? ” asked  Mrs.  Joe.  “ What  can  the  boy 
mean  ? ” 

“ I’ll  tell  you.  Mum,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook.  “ My  opinion  is,  it’s  a sedan- 
chair..  She’s  flighty,  you  know — very  flighty — quite  flighty  enough  to  pass  her 
days  in  a sedan-chair.” 

“ Did  you  ever  see  her  in  it,  uncle  ? ” asked  Mrs.  Joe. 

“ How  could  I,”  he  returned,  forced  to  the  adfnission,  “ when  I never  see  hei 
in  my  life  ? Never  clapped  eyes  upon  her ! ” 

“ Goodness,  uncle  ! And  yet  you  have  spoken  to  her  ? ” 

“Why,  don’t  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  testily,  “ that  when  I have 
been  there,  I have  been  took  up  to  the  outside  of  her  door,  and  the  door  has  stood 
ajar,  and  she  has  spoken  to  me  that  way.  Don’t  say  you  don’t  know  that \ 
Mum.  Howsever,  the  boy  went  there  to  play.  What  did  you  play  at,  boy  ? ” 

“ We  played  with  flags,”  I said.  (I  beg  to  observe  that  I think  of  myself  with 
amazement,  when  I recall  the  lies  I told  on  this  occasion.) 

“ Flags  ! ” echoed  my  sister. 

“ Yes,”  said  I.  “ Estella  waved  a blue  flag,  and  I waved  a red  one,  and  Miss 
Havisham  waved  one  sprinkled  all  over  with  little  gold  stars,  out  at  the  coach- 
window.  And  then  we  all  waved  our  swords  and  hurrahed.” 

“ Swords  ! ” repeated  my  sister.  “ Where  did  you  get  swords  from  ? 99 

“ Out  of  a cupboard,”  said  I.  “ And  I saw  pistols  in  it — and  jam — and  pills. 
And  there  was  no  daylight  in  the  room,  but  it  was  all  lighted  up  with  candles.” 

“That’s  true,  Mum,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  with  a grave  nod.  “That’s  the 
state  of  the  case,  for  that  much  I’ve  seen  myself.”  And  then  they  both  stared  at 
me,  and  I,  with  an  obtrusive  show  of  artlessness  on  my  countenance,  stared  at 
them,  and  plaited  the  right  leg  of  my  trousers  with  my  right  hand. 

If  they  had  asked  me  any  more  questions  I should  undoubtedly  have  betrayed 
myself,  for  I was  even  then  on  the  point  of  mentioning  that  there  was  a balloon  in 
the  yard,  and  should  have  hazarded  the  statement  but  for  my  invention  being 
divided  between  that  phenomenon  and  a bear  in  the  brewery.  They  were  so  much 
occupied,  however,  in  discussing  the  marvels  I had  already  presented  for  their 
consideration,  that  I escaped.  The  subject  still  held  them  when  Joe  came  in  from 
his  work  to  have  a cup  of  tea.  To  whom  my  sister,  more  for  the  relief  of  her  own 
mind  than  for  the  gratification  of  his,  related  my  pretended  experiences. 

Now,  when  I saw  Joe  open  his  blue  eyes  and  roll  them  all  round  the  kitchen  in 
helpless  amazement,  I was  overtaken  by  penitence ; but  only  as  regarded  him — 
not  in  the  least  as  regarded  the  other  two.  Towards  Joe,  and  Joe  only,  I con- 
sidered myself  a young  monster,  while  they  sat  debating  what  results  would  come 
to  me  from  Miss  Havisham’s  acquaintance  and  favour.  They  had  no  doubt  that 
Miss  Havisham  would  “ do  something  ” for  me  ; their  doubts  related  to  the  form 
that  something  would  take.  My  sister  stood  out  for  “property.”  Mr.  Pumble- 
chook was  in  favour  of  a handsome  premium  for  binding  me  apprentice  to  some 
genteel  trade — say,  the  corn  and  seel  trade,  for  instance.  Joe  fell  into  the  deepest 
disgrace  with  both,  for  offering  the  bright  suggestion  that  I might  only  be  pre- 
sented with  one  of  the  dogs  who  had  fought  for  the  veal-cutlets.  “ If  a fool’s  head 
can’t  express  better  opinions  than  that,”  said  my  sister,  “ and  you  have  got  any 
work  to  do,  you  had  better  go  and  do  it.”  So  he  went. 

After  Mr.  Pumblechook  had  driven  off,  and  when  my  sister  was  washing  up,  I 
stole  into  the  frrge  to  Joe,  and  remained  by  him  until  he  had  done  frr  the  night 


264  Great  Expectations . 


Then  I said,  ‘ 4 Before  the  fire  goes  out,  Joe,  I should  like  to  tell  you  some* 
thing.” 

“ Should  you,  Pip  ?”  said  Toe,  drawing  his  shoeing-stool  near  the  forge.  “ Then 
tel)  us.  What  is  it,  Pip  ? ” 

“ Joe,”  said  I,  taking  hold  of  his  rolled-up  shirt  sleeve,  and  twisting  it  between 
my  finger  and  thumb,  “ you  remember  all  that  about  Miss  Havisham’s  ?” 

“ Remember  ? ” said  Joe.  “ I believe  you  ! Wonderful ! ” 

“ It’s  a terrible  thing,  Joe  ; it  ain’t  true.” 

“What  are  you  telling  of,  Pip  ? ” cried  Joe,  falling  back  in  the  greatest  amaze- 
ment. “You  don’t  mean  to  say  it’s ” • 

“Yes,  I do  ; it’s  lies,  Joe.” 

“ But  not  all  of  it  ? Why  sure  you  don’t  mean  to  say,  Pip,  that  there  was  no 

black  welwet  co ch  ? ” For,  I stood  shaking  my  head.  “ But  at  least  there 

was  dogs,  Pip?  Come,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  persuasively,  “if  there  warn’t  no  weal- 
cutlets,  at  least  their  was  dogs  ? ” 

“No,  Joe.” 

“ A dog  ? ” said  Joe.  “ A puppy  ? Come  ! ” 

“ No,  Joe,  there  was  nothing  at  all  of  the  kind.” 

As  I fixed  my  eyes  hopelessly  on  Joe,  Joe  contemplated  me  in  dismay.  “ Pip, 
old  chap ! This  won’t  do,  old  fellow ! I say ! Where  do  you  expect  to  go 

to?  ” 

“ It’s  terrible,  Joe  ; ain’t  it  ? ” 

“ Terrible  ? ” cried  Joe.  “ Awful ! What  possessed  you  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know  what  possessed  me,  Joe,”  I replied,  letting  his  shirt  sleeve  go, 
and  sitting  down  in  the  ashes  at  his  feet,  hanging  my  head  ; “ but  I wish  you 
hadn’t  taught  me  to  call  Knaves  at  cards,  Jacks ; and  I wish  my  boots  weren’t  so 
thick  nor  my  hands  so  coarse.” 

And  then  I told  Joe  that  I felt  very  miserable,  and  that  I hadn’t  been  able  to 
explain  myself  to  Mrs.  Joe  and  Pumblechook,  who  were  so  rude  to  me,  and  that 
there  had  been  a beautiful  young  lady  at  Miss  Havisham’s  who  was  dreadfully 
proud,  and  that  she  had  said  I was  common,  and  that  I knew  I was  common,  and 
that  I wished  I was  not  common,  and  that  the  lies  had  come  of  it  somehow, 
though  I didn’t  know  how. 

This  was  a case  of  metaphysics,  at  least  as  difficult  for  Joe  to  deal  with,  as  for 
me.  But  Joe  took  the  case  altogether  out  of  the  region  of  metaphysics,  and  by 
that  means  vanquished  it. 

“There’s  one  thing  you  may  be  sure  of,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  after  some  rumination, 
“namely,  that  lies  is  lies.  Howsever  they  come,  they  didn’t  ought  to  come,  and 
they  come  from  the  father  of  lies,  and  work  round  to  the  same.  Don’t  you  tell  no 
more  of  ’em,  Pip.  That  ain’t  the  way  to  get  out  of  being  common,  old  chap. 
And  as  to  being  common,  I don’t  make  it  out  at  all  clear.  You  are  oncommon  in 
some  things.  You’re  oncommon  small.  Likewise  you’re  a oncommon  scholar.” 
“ No,  I am  ignorant  and  backward,  Joe.” 

“ Why,  see  what  a letter  you  wrote  last  night ! Wrote  in  print  even  ! I’ve 
seen  letters — Ah  ! and  from  gentlefolks  ! — that  I’ll  swear  weren’t  wrote  in  print,” 
said  Joe. 

“I  have  learnt  next  to  nothing,  Joe.  You  think  much  of  me.  It’s  only 
that.” 

“ Well,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  “be  it  so,  or  be  it  son’t,you  must  be  a common  scholar 
afore  you  can  be  a oncommon  one,  I should  hope  ! The  king  upon  his  throne, 
with  his  crown  upon  his  ’ed,  can’t  sit  and  write  his  acts  of  Parliament  in  print, 
without  having  begun,  when  he  were  a unpromoted  Prince,  with  the  alphabet — 
Ah ! ” added  Joe,  with  a shake  of  the  head  that  was  full  of  meaning,  “ and  begun 


One  memorable  day . 265 

it  A.  too,  and  worked  his  way  to  Z.  And  I know  what  that  is  to  do,  though  I 
can’t  say  I’ve  exactly  done  it.” 

There  was  some  hope  in  this  piece  of  wisdom,  and  it  rather  encouraged  me. 

“ Whether  common  ones  as  to  callings  and  earnings,”  pursued  Joe,  reflectively, 
u mightn’t  be  the  better  of  continuing  for  to  keep  company  with  common  ones, 
instead  of  going  out  to  play  with  oncommon  ones — which  reminds  me  to  hope 
that  there  were  a flag,  perhaps  ? ” 

“No,  Joe.” 

“ (I’m  sorry  there  weren’t  a flag,  Pip).  Whether  that  might  be,  or  mightn’t 
be,  is  a thing  as  can’t  be  looked  into  now,  without  putting  your  sister  on  the 
Rampage  ; and  that’s  a thing  not  to  be  thought  of,  as  being  done  intentional. 
Lookee  here,  Pip,  at  what  is  said  to  you  by  a true  friend.  Which  this  to  you  the 
true  friend  say.  If  you  can’t  get  to  be  oncommon  through  going  straight,  you’ll 
never  get  to  do  it  through  going  crooked.  So  don't  tell  no  more  on  ’em,  Pip,  and 
live  well  and  die  happy.” 

“ You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Joe  ?” 

“ No,  old  chap.  But  bearing  in  mind  that  them  were  which  I meantersay  of  a 
stunning  and  outdacious  sort — alluding  to  them  which  bordered  on  weal-cutlets 
and  dog-fighting — a sincere  well-wisher -would  adwise,  Pip,  their  being  dropped, 
into  your  meditations,  when  you  go  up-stairs  to  bed.  That’s  all,  old  chap,  and 
don’t  never  do  it  no  more.” 

When  I got  up  to  my  little  room  and  said  my  prayers,  I did  not  forget  Joe’s 
recommendation,  and  yet  my  young  mind  was  in  that  disturbed  and  unthankful 
state,  that  I thought  long  after  I laid  me  down,  how  common  Estella  would  consider 
Joe,  a mere  blacksmith  : how  thick  his  boots,  and  how  coarse  his  hands.  I 
thought  how  Joe  and  my  sister  were  then  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  and  how  I had 
come  up  to  bed  from  the  kitchen,  and  how  Miss  Havisham  and  Estella  never  sat 
in  a kitchen,  but  were  far  above  the  level  of  such  common  doings.  I fell  asleep 
recalling  what  I “ used  to  do  ” when  I was  at  Miss  Havisham’s  ; as  though  I had 
been  there  weeks  or  months,  instead  of  hours  : and  as  though  it  were  quite  an  old 
subject  of  remembrance,  instead  of  one  that  had  risen  only  that  day. 

That  was  a memorable  day  to  me,  for  it  made  great  change  in  me.  But  it  is 
the  same  with  any  life.  Imagine  one  selected  day  struck  out  of  it,  and  think  how 
different  its  course  would  have  been.  Pause  you  who  read  this,  and  think  for  a 
moment  of  the  long  chain  of  iron  or  gold,  of  thorns  or  flowers,  that  would  never 
have  bound  you,  but  for  the  formation  of  the  first  link  on  one  memorable  day. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  felicitous  idea  occurred  to  me  a morning  or  two  later  when  I woke,  that  the 
best  step  I could  take  towards  making  myself  uncommon  was  to  get  out  of  Biddy 
everything  she  knew.  In  pursuance  of  this  luminous  conception,  I mentioned  to 
Biddy  when  I went  to  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt’s  at  night,  that  I had  a particular 
reason  for  wishing  to  get  on  in  life,  and  that  I should  feel  very  much  obliged  to 
her  if  she  would  impart  all  her  learning  to  me.  Biddy,  who  was  the  most  obliging 
of  girls,  immediately  said  she  would,  and  indeed  began  to  carry  out  her  promise 
within  five  minutes. 

The  Educational  scheme  or  Course  established  by  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt  may 
be  resolved  into  the  following  synopsis.  The  pupils  ate  apples  and  put  straw’s 
down  one  another’s  backs,  until  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt  collected  her  energies, 
and  made  an  indiscriminate  totter  at  them  with  a birch-rod.  After  receiving  tha 


g66 


Great  Expectations . 


charge  with  every  mark  of  derision,  the  pupils  formed  in  line  and  buzzmgly  p^sed 
a ragged  book  from  hand  to  hand.  The  book  had  an  alphabet  in  it,  some  figures 
and  tables,  and  a little  spelling — that  is  to  sav,  it  had  had  once.  A soon  as  this 
volume  began  to  circulate,  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt  fell  into  a state  of  coma; 
arising  either  from  sleep  or  a rheumatic  paroxysm.  The  pupils  then  entered 
among  themselves  upon  a competitive  examination  on  the  subject  of  Boots,  with 
the  view  of  ascertaining  who  could  tread  the  hardest  upon  whose  toes.  This 
mental  exercise  lasted  until  Biddy  made  a rush  at  them  and  distributed  three 
defaced  Bibles  (shaped  as  if  they  had  been  unskilfully  cut  off  the  chump-end  of 
something),  more  illegibly  printed  at  the  best  than  any  curiosities  of  literature  I 
have  since  met  with,  speckled  all  over  with  ironmould,  and  having  various  speci- 
mens of  the  insect  world  smashed  between  their  leaves.  This  part  of  the  Course 
was  usually  lightened  by  several  single  combats  between  Biddy  and  refractory 
students.  When  the  fights  were  over,  Biddy  gave  out  the  number  of  a page, 
and  then  we  all  read  aloud  what  we  could — or  what  we  couldn’t — in  a frightful 
chorus  ; Biddy  leading  with  a high  shrill  monotonous  voice,  and  none  of  us  having 
the  least  notion  of,  or  reverence  for,  what  we  were  reading  about.  When  this 
horrible  din  had  lasted  a certain  time,  it  mechanically  awoke  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great- 
aunt,  who  staggered  at  a boy  fortuitously,  and  pulled  his  ears.  This  was  under- 
stood to  terminate  the  Course  for  the  evening,  and  we  emerged  into  the  air  with 
shrieks  of  intellectual  victory.  It  is  fair  to  remark  that  there  was  no  prohibition 
against  any  pupil’s  entertaining  himself  with  a slate  or  even  with  the  ink  (when 
there  was  any),  but  that  it  was  not  easy  to  pursue  that  branch  of  study  in  the 
winter  season,  on  account  of  the  little  general  shop  in  which  the  classes  were 
holden — and  which  was  also  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt’s  sitting-room  and  bed- 
chamber— being  but  faintly  illuminated  through  the  agency  of  one  low-spirited 
dip-candle  and  no  snuffers. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  it  would  take  time  to  become  uncommon  under  these 
circumstances  : nevertheless,  I resolved  to  try  it,  and  that  very  evening  Biddy 
entered  on  our  special  agreement,  by  imparting  some  information  from  her  little 
catalogue  of  Prices,  under  the  head  of  moist  sugar,  and  lending  me,  to  copy  at 
home,  a large  old  English  D which  she  had  imitated  from  the  heading  of  some 
newspaper,  and  which  I supposed,  until  she  told  me  what  it  was,  to  be  a design 
for  a buckle. 

Of  course  there  was  a public-house  in  the  village,  and  of  course  Joe  liked  some- 
times to  smoke  his  pipe  there.  I had  received  strict  orders  from  my  sister  to  call 
for  him  at  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen,  that  evening,  on  my  way  from  school,  and 
bring  him  home  at  my  peril.  To  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen,  therefore,  I directed 
my  steps. 

There  was  a bar  at  the  Jolly  Bargemen,  with  some  alarmingly  long  chalk  scores 
in  it  on  the  wall  at  the  side  of  the  door,  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  never  paid  off. 
They  had  been  there  ever  since  I could  remember,  and  had  grown  more  than  I 
had.  But  there  was  a quantity  of  chalk  about  our  country,  and  perhaps  the  people 
neglected  no  opportunity  of  turning  it  to  account. 

It  being  Saturday  night,  I found  the  landlord  looking  rather  grimly  at  these 
records,  but  as  my  business  was  with  Joe  and  not  with  him,  I merely  wished  him 
good  evening,  and  passed  into  the  common  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  where 
there  was  a bright  large  kitchen  fire,  and  where  Joe  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  com- 
pany with  Mr.  Wopsle  and  a stranger.  Joe  greeted  me  as  usual  with  “ Halloa, 
Pip,  old  chap  !”  and  the  moment  he  said  that,  the  stranger  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  me. 

He  was  a seci  et-looking  man  whom  I had  never  seen  before.  His  head  was  all 
on  one  side,  and  one  of  his  eyes  was  half  shut  up,  as  if  he  were  taking  aim  at 


Glasses  round  at  the  Jolly  Bargemen.  267 

something  with  an  invisible  gun.  He  had  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  he  took  it  out, 
and,  after  slowly  blowing  all  his  smoke  away  and  looking  hard  at  me  all  the 
time,  nodded.  So,  I nodded,  and  then  he  nodded  again,  and  made  room  on  the 
settle  beside  him  diat  I might  sit  down  there. 

But,  as  I was  used  to  sit  beside  Joe  whenever  I entered  that  place  of  resort, 
I said  “No,  thank  you,  sir,”  and  fell  into  the  space  Joe  made  for  me  on  the  oppo- 
site settle.  The  strange  man,  after  glancing  at  Joe,  and  seeing  that  his  attention 
was  otherwise  engaged,  nodded  to  me  again  when  I had  taken  my  seat,  and  then 
rubbed  his  leg — in  a very  odd  way,  as  it  struck  me. 

“ You  was  saying,”  said  the  strange  man,  turning  to  Joe,  “ that  you  was  a 
blacksmith.” 

“Yes.  I said  it,  you  know,”  said  Joe. 

“What’ll  you  drink,  Mr. ? You  didn’t  mention  your  name,  by-the-bye.” 

Joe  mentioned  it  now,  and  the  strange  man  called  him  by  it. 

“ What’ll  you  drink,  Mr.  Gargery  ? At  my  expense  ? To  top  up  with  ?” 
“Well,”  said  Joe,  “ to  tell  you  the  truth,  I ain’t  much  in  the  habit  of  drinking 
at  anybody’s  expense  but  my  own.” 

“Habit?  No,”  returned  the  stranger,  “ but  once  and  away,  and  on  a Satur- 
day night  too.  Come ! Put  a name  to  it,  Mr.  Gargery.” 

“ I wouldn’t  wish  to  be  stiff  company,”  said  Joe.  “ Rum.” 

“ Rum,”  repeated  the  stranger.  “ And  will  the  other  gentleman  originate  a 
sentiment.” 

“Rum,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle. 

“ Three  Rums  ! ” cried  the  stranger,  calling  to  the  landlord.  “ Glasses 
round ! ” 

“ This  other  gentleman,”  observed  Joe,  by  way  of  introducing  Mr.  Wopsle, 
“ is  a gentleman  that  you  would  like  to  hear  give  it  out.  Our  clerk  at  church.” 
“Aha  !”  said  the  stranger,  quickly,  and  cocking  his  eye  at  me.  “The  lonely 
church,  right  out  on  the  marshes,  with  the  graves  round  it !” 

“ That’s  it,”  said  Joe. 

The  stranger,  with  a comfortable  kind  of  grunt  over  his  pipe,  put  his  legs  up  on 
the  settle  that  be  had  to  himself.  He  wore  a flapping  broad-brimmed  traveller’s 
hat,  and  under  it  a handkerchief  tied  over  his  head  in  the  manner  of  a cap  : so 
that  he  sno^d  no  hair.  As  he  looked  at  the  Are,  I thought  I saw  a cunning 
expression,  Oil  owed  by  a half-laugh,  come  into  his  face. 

“ I am  not  acquainted  with  this  country,  gentlemen,  but  it  seems  a solitary 
country  towards  the  river.” 

“ Most  marshes  is  solitary,”  said  Joe. 

“No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Do  you  find  any  gipsies,  now,  or  tramps,  or  vagrants 
of  any  sort,  out  there  ?” 

“ No,”  said  Joe  ; “ none  but  a runaway  convict  now  and  then.  And  we  don’t 
find  them,  easy.  Eh,  Mr.  Wopsle  ?” 

Mr.  Wopsle,  with  a majestic  remembrance  of  old  discomfiture,  assented;  but 
not  warmly.  , 

“ Seems  you  have  been  out  after  such  ?”  asked  the  stranger. 

“ Once,”  returned  Joe.  “ Not  that  we  wanted  to  take  them,  you  understand  • 
we  went  out  as  lookers  on  ; me  and  Mr.  Wopsle,  and  Pip.  Didn’t  us,  Pip  ?” 
“Yes,  Joe.” 

The  stranger  looked  at  me  again — still  cocking  his  eye,  as  if  he  were  expressly 
taking  aim  at  me  with  his  invisible  gun — and  said,  “He’s  a likely  young  pared 
of  bones  that.  What  is  it  you  call  him  ?” 

“ Pip,”  said  Joe. 

“ Christened  Pip  ?” 


268 


Great  Expectations. 


“No,  not  christened  Pip.” 

“ Surname  Pip  ?” 

“No,”  said  Joe  ; “it’s  a kind  of  a family  name  what  he  gave  himself  when  8 
infant,  and  is  called  by.” 

“ Son  of  yours  ?” 

“Well,”  said  Joe,  meditatively — not,  of  course,  that  it  could  be  in  anywise 
necessary  to  consider  about  it,  but  because  it  was  the  way  at  the  Jolly  Bargemen 
to  seem  to  consider  deeply  about  everything  that  was  discussed  over  pipes  ; “ well 
— no.  No,  he  ain’t.” 

“Nevvy?”  said  the  strange  man. 

“Well,”  said  Joe,  with  the  same  appearance  of  profound  cogitation,  “ he  is 
not — no,  not  to  deceive  you,  he  is  not — my  nevvy.” 

“ What  the  Blue  Blazes  is  he  ?”  asked  the  stranger.  Which  appeared  to  me 
to  be  an  inquiry  of  unnecessary  strength. 

Mr.  Wopsle  struck  in  upon  that ; as  one  who  knew  all  about  relationships, 
having  professional  occasion  to  bear  in  mind  what  female  relations  a man  might 
not  marry;  and  expounded  the  ties  between  me  and  Joe.  Having  his  hand  in, 
Mr.  Wopsle  finished  off  with  a most  terrifically  snarling  passage  from  Richard  the 
Third,  and  seemed  to  think  he  had  done  quite  enough  to  account  for  it  when  he 
added, — “ as  the  poet  says.” 

And  here  I may  remark  that  when  Mr.  Wopsle  referred  to  me,  he  considered 
it  a necessary  part  of  such  reference  to  rumple  my  hair  and  poke  it  into  my 
eyes.  I cannot  conceive  why  everybody  of  his  standing  who  visited  at  our 
house  should  always  have  put  me  through  the  same  inflammatory  process  under 
similar  circumstances.  Yet  I do  not  call  to  mind  that  I was  ever  in  my  earlier 
youth  the  subject  of  remark  in  our  social  family  circle,  but  some  large-handed 
person  took  some  such  ophthalmic  steps  to  patronise  me. 

All  this  while,  the  strange  man  looked  at  nobody  but  me,  and  looked  at  me 
as  if  he  were  determined  to  have  a shot  at  me  at  last,  and  bring  me  down.  But 
he  said  nothing  after  offering  his  Blue  Blazes  observation,  until  the  glasses  of 
rum-and- water  were  brought : and  then  he  made  his  shot,  and  a most  extraor- 
dinary shot  it  was. 

It  was  not  a verbal  remark,  but  a proceeding  in  dumb  show,  and  was  pointedly 
~ addressed  to  me.  He  stirred  his  rum-and-water  pointedly  at  me,  and  he  tasted 
his  rum-and-water  pointedly  at  me.  And  he  stirred  it  and  he  tasted  it . not 
with  a spoon  that  was  brought  to  him,  but  with  a file . 

He  did  this  so  that  nobody  but  I saw  the  file ; and  when  he  had  done  it,  he 
wiped  the  file  and  put  it  in  a breast-pocket.  I knew  it  to  be  Joe’s  file,  and  I 
knew  that  he  knew  my  convict,  the  moment  I saw  the  instrument.  I sat  gazing 
at  him,  spell-bound.  But  he  now  reclined  on  his  settle,  taking  very  little  notice 
of  me,  and  talking  principally  about  turnips. 

There  was  a delicious  sense  of  cleaning-up  and  making  a quiet  pause  before 
going  on  in  life  afresh,  in  our  village  on  Saturday  nights,  which  stimulated  Joe  to 
dare  to  stay  out  half  an  hour  longer  on  Saturdays  than  at  other  times.  The 
half  hour  and  the  rum-and-water  running  out  together,  Joe  got  up  to  go,  and 
took  me  by  the  hand. 

“ Stop  half  a moment,  Mr.  Gargery,”  said  the  strange  man.  “ I think  I’ve 
got  a bright  new  shilling  somewhere  in  my  pocket,  and  if  I have,  the  boy  shall 
have  it.” 

He  looked  it  out  from  a handful  of  small  change,  folded  it  in  some  crumpled 
gaper,  and  gave  it  to  me.  “ Yours  !”  said  he.  “ Mind  ! Your  own.” 

I thanked  him,  staring  at  him  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  good  manners,  and 
holding  tight  to  Joe.  He  gave  Joe  good-night,  and  he  gave  Mr.  Wopsle  good* 


Two  One-Pound  Notes . 


2 fit) 

night  (who  went  out  with  us),  and  he  gave  me  only  a look  with  his  aiming  eye — no, 
not  a look,  for  he  shut  it  up,  but  wonders  may  be  done  with  an  eye  by  hiding  it. 

On  the  way  home,  if  I had  been  in  a humour  for  talking,  the  talk  must  have 
been  all  on  my  side,  for  Mr.  Wopsle  parted  from  us  at  the  door  of  the  Jolly 
Bargemen,  and  Joe  went  all  the  way  home  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  to  rinse 
the  rum  out  with  as  much  air  as  possible.  But  I was  in  a manner  stupified  by 
this  turning  up  of  my  old  misdeed  and  old  acquaintance,  and  could  think  of 
nothing  else. 

My  sister  was  not  in  a very  bad  temper  when  we  presented  ourselves  in  the  kit- 
chen, and  Joe  was  encouraged  by  that  unusual  circumstance  to  tell  her  about  the 
bright  shilling.  “ A bad  un,  I’ll  be  bound,”  said  Mrs.  Joe,  triumphantly,  “ or  he 
wouldn’t  have  given  it  to  the  boy  ? Let’s  look  at  it.” 

I took  it  out  of  the  paper,  and  it  proved  to  be  a good  one.  “ But  what’s  this  ?” 
said  Mrs.  Joe,  throwing  down  the  shilling  and  catching  up  the  paper.  “Two 
One-Pound  notes  ?” 

Nothing  less  than  two  fat  sweltering  one-pound  notes  that  seemed  to  have  been 
on  terms  of  the  warmest  intimacy  with  all  the  cattle  markets  in  the  county.  Joe 
caught  up  his  hat  again,  and  ran  with  them  to  the  Jolly  Bargemen  to  restore 
them  to  their  owner.  While  he  was  gone  I sat  down  on  my  usual  stool  and 
looked  vacantly  at  my  sister,  feeling  pretty  sure  that  the  man  would  not  be  there. 

Presently,  Joe  came  back,  saying  that  the  man  was  gone,  but  that  he,  Joe,  had 
left  word  at  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen  concerning  the  notes.  Then  my  sister 
sealed  them  up  in  a piece  of  paper,  and  put  them  under  some  dried  rose-leaves 
In  an  ornamental  tea-pot  on  the  top  of  a press  in  the  state  parlour.  There  they 
remained  a nightmare  to  me  many  and  many  a night  and  day. 

I had  sadly  broken  sleep  when  I got  to  bed,  through  thinking  of  the  strange 
man  taking  aim  at  me  with  his  invisible  gun,  and  of  the  guiltily  coarse  and  com- 
mon thing  it  was,  to  be  on  secret  terms  of  conspiracy  with  convicts — a feature  in 
my  low  career  that  I had  previously  forgotten.  I was  haunted  by  the  file  too.  A 
dread  possessed  me  that  when  I least  expected  it,  the  file  would  reappear.  I 
coaxed  myself  to  sleep  by  thinking  of  Miss  Havisham’s  next  Wednesday  ; and 
in  my  sleep  I saw  the  file  coming  at  me  out  of  a door,  without  seeing  who  held  it, 
and  I screamed  myself  awake. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

At  the  appointed  time  I returned  to  Miss  Havisham’s,  and  my  hesitating  ring  at 
the  gate  brought  out  Estella;  She  locked  it  after  admitting  me,  as  she  had  done 
before,  and  again  preceded  me  into  the  dark  passage  where  her  candle  stood. 
She  took  no  notice  of  me  until  she  had  the  candle  in  her  hand,  when  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder,  superciliously  saying,  “You  are  to  come  this  way  to-day,”  and 
took  me  to  quite  another  part  of  the  house. 

The  passage  was  a long  one,  and  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  square  basement 
of  the  Manor  House.  We  traversed  but  one  side  of  the  square,  however,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  she  stopped  and  put  her  candle  down  and  opened  a door.  Here, 
the  daylight  reappeared,  and  I found  myself  in  a small  paved  court-yard,  the  oppo- 
site side  of  which  was  formed  by  a detached  dwTelling-house,  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  once  belonged  to  the  manager  or  head  clerk  of  the  extinct  brewery.  There 
was  a clock  in  the  outer  wall  of  this  house.  Like  the  clock  in  Miss  Havisham’s 
room,  and  like  Miss  Havisham’s  watch,  it  had  stopped  at  twenty  minutes  to  nine. 

We  went  in  at  the  doo>\  which  stood  open,  and  into  a gloomy  room  with  a low 


270 


Great  Expectations . 


ceiling,  on  the  ground  floor  at  the  back.  There  was  some  company  in  the  room,  and 
Estella  said  to  me  as  she  joined  it,  “ You  are  to  go  and  stand  there,  boy,  till  you 
are  wanted.”  “ There  ” being  the  window,  I crossed  to  it,  and  stood  “ there,” 
in  a very  uncomfortable  state  of  mind,  looking  out. 

It  opened  to  the  ground,  and  looked  into  a most  miserable  corner  of  the 
neglected  garden,  upon  a rank  ruin  of  cabbage-stalks,  and  one  box  tree  that  had 
been  clipped  round  long  ago,  like  a pudding,  and  had  a new  growth  at  the  top 
of  it,  out  of  shape  and  of  a different  colour,  as  if  that  part  of  the  pudding  had 
stuck  to  the  saucepan  and  got  burnt.  This  was  my  homely  thought,  as  I con- 
templated the  box-tree.  There  had  been  some  light  snow,  overnight,  and  it  lay 
nowhere  else  to  my  knowledge  ; but,  it  had  not  quite  melted  from  the  cold  shadow 
of  this  bit  of  garden,  and  the  wind  caught  it  up  in  little  eddies  and  threw  it  at 
the  window,  as  if  it  pelted  me  for  coming  there. 

I divined  that  my  coming  had  st'  pped  conversation  in  the  room,  and  that  its 
other  occupants  were  looking  at  me.  I could  see  nothing  of  the  room  except 
the  shining  of  the  fire  in  the  window  glass,  but  I stiffened  in  all  my  joints  with 
the  consciousness  that  I was  under  close  inspection. 

There  were  three  ladies  in  the  room  and  one  gentleman.  Before  I had  been 
standing  at  the  window  five  minutes,  they  somehow  conveyed  to  me  that  they 
were  all  toadies  and  humbugs,  but  that  each  of  them  pretended  not  to  know  that 
the  others  were  toadies  and  humbugs  : because  the  admission  that  he  or  she  did 
know  it,  would  have  made  him  or  her  out  to  be  a toady  and  humbug. 

They  all  had  a listless  and  dreary  air  of  waiting  somebody’s  pleasure,  and  the 
most  talkative  of  the  ladies  had  to  speak  quite  rigidly  to  suppress  a yawn.  This 
lady,  whose  name  was  Camilla,  very  much  reminded  me  of  my  sister,  with  the 
difference  that  she  was  older,  and  (as  I found  when  I caught  sight  of  her)  of  a 
blunter  cast  of  features.  Indeed,  when  I knew  her  better  I began  to  think  it  was 
a Mercy  she  had  any  features  at  all,  so  very  blank  and  high  was  the  dead  wall  of 
her  face. 

“ Poor  dear  soul !”  said  this  lady,  with  an  abruptness  of  manner  quite  my 
sister’s.  “ Nobody’s  enemy  but  his  own  ! ” 

“ It  would  be  much  more  commendable  to  be  somebody  else’s  enemy,”  said  the 
gentleman;  “far  more  natural.” 

“ Cousin  Raymond,”  observed  another  lady,  “ we  are  to  love  our  neighbour.” 

“ Sarah  Pocket,”  returned  Cousin  Raymond,  “if  a man  is  not  his  own  neigh- 
oour,  who  is  ?” 

Miss  Pocket  laughed,  and  Camilla  laughed  and  said  (checking  a yawn),  “The 
idea!”  But  I thought  they  seemed  to  think  it  rather  a good  idea  too.  The 
other  lady,  who  had  not  spoken  yet,  said  gravely  and  emphatically,  “ Very  true  !” 

“Poor  soul !”  Camilla  presently  went  on  (I  knew  they  had  all  been  looking 
at  me  in  the  mean  time),  “he  is  so  very  strange ! Would  any  one  believe  that 
when  Tom’s  wife  died,  he  actually  could  not  be  induced  to  see  the  importance 
of  the  children’s  having  the  deepest  of  trimmings  to  their  mourning  ? * Good 

Lord  !’  says  he,  ‘ Camilla,  what  can  it  signify  so  long  as  the  poor  bereaved  little 
things  are  in  black  ? * So  like  Matthew  ! The  idea  !” 

“ Good  points  in  him,  good  points  in  him,”  said  Cousin  Raymond  ; “ Heaven 
forbid  I should  deny  good  points  in  him ; but  he  never  had,  and  he  never  will 
have,  any  sense  of  the  proprieties.” 

“ You  know  I was  obliged,”  said  Camilla,  “ I was  obliged  to  be  firm.  I said, 
' It  WILL  not  DO,  for  the  credit  of  the  family.’  I told  him  that,  without  deep 
trimmings,  the  family  was  disgraced.  I cried  about  it  from  breakfast  till  dinner. 
I injured  my  digestion.  And  at  last  he  flung  out  in  his  violent  way,  and  said, 
with  a J3,  ‘ Then  do  as  you  like.’  Thank  Goodness  it  will  always  be  a consolation 


I first  meet  a man  whom  I shall  often  meet . 


271 


to  mu  to  know  that  I instantly  went  out  in  a pouring  rain  and  bought  the 
fch  ngs.” 

“ He  paid  for  them,  did  he  not  ? ” asked  Estella. 

“ It’s  not  the  question,  my  dear  child,  who  paid  for  them,”  returned  Camilla. 
“/  bought  them.  And  I shall  often  think  of  that  with  peace,  when  I wake  up 
in  the  night.” 

The  ringing  of  a distant  bell,  combined  with  the  echoing  of  some  cry  or  cal1 
along  the  passage  by  which  I had  come,  interrupted  the  conversation  and  caused 
^Estella  to  say  to  me,  “ Now,  boy  ! ” On  my  turning  round,  they  all  looked  at 
me  with  the  utmost  contempt,  and,  as  I went  out,  I heard  Sarah  Pocket  say, 
“Well  I am  sure  ! What  next!”  and  Camilla  add,  with  indignation,  “Was 
there  ever  such  a fancy  ! The  i-de-a  ! ” 

As  we  were  going  with  our  candle  along  the  dark  passage,  Estella  stopped  all 
of  a sudden,  and,  facing  round,  said  in  her  taunting  manner,  with  her  face  quite 
close  to  mine : 

“Well?” 

“ Well,  miss,”  I answered,  almost  failing  over  her  and  checking  myself. 

She  stood  looking  at  me,  and  of  course  I stood  looking  at  her. 

“ Am  I pretty  ? ” 

“Yes  ; I think  you  are  very  pretty.” 

“ Am  I insulting  ? ” 

“Not  so  much  so  as  you  were  last  time,”  said  I. 

“ Not  so  much  so  ? ” 

“No.” 

She  fired  when  she  asked  the  last  question,  and  she  slapped  my  face  with  such 
force  as  she  had,  when  I answered  it. 

“Now  ? ” said  she.  “ You  little  coarse  monster,  what  do  you  think  of  me  now  ?** 
“ I shall  not  tell  you.” 

“ Because  you  are  going  to  tell  up-stairs.  Is  that  it  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  I,  “ that’s  not  it.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  cry  again,  you  little  wretch  ? ” 

“ Because  I’ll  never  cry  for  you  again,”  said  I.  Which  was,  I suppose,  as  false 
a declaration  as  ever  was  made  ; for  I was  inwardly  crying  for  her  then,  and  I 
know  what  I know  of  the  pain  she  cost  me  afterwards. 

We  went  on  our  way  up-stairs  after  this  episode ; and,  as  we  were  going  up,  we 
met  a gentleman  groping  his  way  down. 

“ Whom  have  we  here  ? ” asked  the  gentleman,  stopping  and  looking  at  me. 

“ A boy,”  said  Estella. 

He  was  a burly  man  of  an  exceedingly  dark  complexion,  with  an  exceedingly 
large  head  and  a corresponding  large  hand.  He  took  my  chin  in  his  large  hand 
and  turned  up  my  face  to  have  a look  at  me  by  the  light  of  the  candle.  He  was 
prematurely  bald  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  had  bushy  black  eyebrows  that 
wouldn’t  lie  down,  but  stood  up  bristling.  His  eyes  were  set  very  deep  in  his 
head,  and  wrere  disagreeably  sharp  and  suspicious.  He  had  a large  watch-chain, 
and  strong  black  dots  where  his  beard  and  whiskers  would  have  been  if  he  had 
let  them.  He  was  nothing  to  me,  and  I could  have  had  no  foresight  then,  that 
he  ever  w^ould  be  anything  to  me,  but  it  happened  that  I had  this  opportunity 
of  observing  him  well. 

“ Boy  of  the  neighbourhood  ? Hey  ? ” said  he. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  I. 

“ How  do  you  come  here  ? ” 

“ Miss  Havisham  sent  for  me,  sir,”  I explained. 

“ Well ! Behave  yourself.  I have  a pretty  large  experience  of  boys,  and  you’r* 


g 7 t Great  Expectations. 

a bad  set  of  fellows.  Now  mind  ! ” said  he,  biting  the  side  of  his  great  forefinger 
as  he  frowned  at  me,  “ you  behave  yourself!  ” 

With  these  words  he  released  me — which  I was  glad  of,  for  his  h«nd  smelt  of 
scented  soap — and  went  his  way  down-stairs.  I wondered  whether  he  could  be  a 
doctor  ; but  no,  I thought ; he  couldn’t  be  a doctor,  or  he  would  have  a quieter 
and  more  persuasive  manner.  There  was  not  much  time  to  consider  the  subject, 
for  we  were  soon  in  Miss  Havisham’s  room,  where  she  and  everything  else  were 
just  as  I had  left  them.  Estella  left  me  standing  near  the  door,  and  I stood  there 
until  Miss  Havisham  cast  her  eyes  upon  me  from  the  dressing-table. 

“So  ! ” she  said,  without  being  startled  or  surprised ; “ the  days  have  worn 
•way,  have  they  ? ” 

“ Yes,  ma’am.  To-day  is ” 

“ There,  there,  there  !”  with  the  impatient  movement  of  her  fingers.  “ I don’t 
want  to  know.  Are  you  ready  to  play  ?” 

I was  obliged  to  answer  in  some  confusion,  “ I don’t  think  I am,  ma’am.” 

“Not  at  cards  again  ? ” she  demanded  with  a searching  look. 

“Yes,  ma’am  ; I could  do  that,  if  I was  wanted.” 

“ Since  this  house  strikes  you  old  and  grave,  boy,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  impa- 
tiently, “ and  you  are  unwilling  to  play,  are  you  willing  to  work  ? ” 

I could  answer  this  inquiry  with  a better  heart  than  I had  been  able  to  find  for 
the  other  question,  and  I said  I was  quite  willing. 

“Then  go  into  that  opposite  room,”  said  she,  pointing  at  the  door  behind 
me  with  her  withered  hand,  “ and  wait  there  till  I come.” 

I crossed  the  staircase  landing,  and  entered  the  room  she  indicated.  From  that 
room,  too,  the  daylight  was  completely  excluded,  and  it  had  an  airless  smell  that 
was  oppressive.  A fire  had  been  lately  kindled  in  the  damp  old-fashioned  grate, 
and  it  was  more  disposed  to  go  out  than  to  burn  up,  and  the  reluctant  smoke 
which  hung  in  the  room  seemed  colder  than  the  clearer  air — like  our  own  marsh 
mist.  Certain  wintry  branches  of  candles  on  the  high  chimneypiece  faintly  lighted 
the  chamber ; or,  it  would  be  more  expressive  to  say,  faintly  troubled  its  darkness. 
It  was  spacious,  and  I dare  say  had  once  been  handsome,  but  every  discernible 
thing  in  it  was  covered  with  dust  and  mould,  and  dropping  to  pieces.  The  most 
prominent  object  was  a long  table  with  a tablecloth  spread  on  it,  as  if  a feast  had 
been  in  preparation  when  the  house  and  the  clocks  all  stopped  together.  An 
epergne  or  centre-piece  of  some  kind  was  in  the  middle  of  this  cloth  ; it  was  so 
heavily  overhung  with  cobwebs  that  its  form  was  quite  undistinguishable  ; and,  as 
I looked  along  the  yellow  expanse  out  of  which  I remember  its  seeming  to  grow, 
like  a black  fungus,  I saw  speckled-legged  spiders  with  blotchy  bodies  running 
home  to  it,  and  running  out  from  it,  as  if  some  circumstance  of  the  greatest  public 
importance  had  just  transpired  in  the  spider  community. 

I heard  the  mice  too,  rattling  behind  the  panels,  as  if  the  same  occurrence  were 
important  to  their  interests.  But,  the  blackbeetles  took  no  notice  of  the  agitation, 
and  groped  about  the  hearth  in  a ponderous  elderly  way,  as  if  they  were  short- 
sighted and  hard  of  hearing,  and  not  on  terms  with  one  another. 

These  crawling  things  had  fascinated  my  attention,  and  I was  watching  them 
from  a distance,  when  Miss  Havisham  laid  a hand  upon  my  shoulder.  In  her 
other  hand  she  had  a crutch-headed  stick  on  which  she  leaned,  and  she  looked 
like  the  Witch  of  the  place. 

“ This,”  said  she,  pointing  to  the  long  table  with  her  stick,  “ is  where  I will  be 
/aid  when  I am  dead.  They  shall  come  and  look  at  me  here.” 

With  some  vague  misgiving  that  she  might  get  upon  the  table  then  and  there 
and  die  at  once,  the  complete  realisation  of  the  ghastly  waxwork  at  the  Fair,  I 
shrank  under  her  touch. 


family  Felicities.  273 

“ What  do  you  think  that  is  ?”  she  asked  me,  again  pointing  with  her  stick  ; 
“that,  where  those  cobwebs  are  ? ” 

“ X „an’t  guess  what  it  is,  ma’am,” 

“ It’s  a great  cake.  A bride-cake.  Mine  ! ” 

She  looked  all  round  the  room  in  a glaring  manner,  and  then  said,  leaning  on  me 
while  her  hand  twitched  my  shoulder,  “ Come,  come,  come  ! Walk  me,  walk  me  ! ” 
I made  out  from  this,  that  the  w ork  I had  to  do,  was  to  walk  Miss  Havisham 
round  and  round  the  room.  Accordingly,  I started  at  once,  and  she  leaned  upon 
my  shoulder,  and  we  went  away  at  a pace  that  might  have  been  an  imitation 
(founded  on  my  first  impulse  under  that  roof)  of  Mr.  Pumblechook’s  chaise-cart. 

She  was  not  physically  strong,  and  after  a little  time  said,  “ Slower ! ” 
Still,  we  went  at  an  impatient  fitful  speed,  and  as  we  went,  she  twitched  the  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  worked  her  mouth,  and  led  me  to  believe  that  we  were 
going  fast  because  her  thoughts  went  fast.  After  a while  she  said,  “Call  Estella  ! ” 
so  I went  out  on  the  landing  and  roared  that  name  as  I had  done  on  the  previous 
occasion.  When  her  light  appeared,  I returned  to  Miss  Havisham,  and  we  started 
away  again  round  and  round  the  room. 

If  only  Estella  had  come  to  be  a spectator  of  our  proceedings,  I should  have  felt 
sufficiently  discontented  ; but,  as  she  brought  with  her  the  three  ladies  and  the 
gentleman  whom  I had  seen  below,  I didn’t  know  what  to  do.  In  my  politeness 
1 would  have  stopped ; but,  Miss  Havisham  twitched  my  shoulder,  and  we  posted 
on — with  a shame-faced  consciousness  on  my  part  that  they  would  think  it  was  all 
my  doing. 

“ Dear  Miss  Havisham,”  said  Miss  Sarah  Pocket.  “ How  well  you  look  ! ” 

“ I do  not,”  returned  Miss  Havisham.  “ I am  yellow  skin  and  bone.” 

Camilla  brightened  when  Miss  Pocket  met  with  this  rebuff ; and  she  murmured, 
as  she  plaintively  contemplated  Miss  Havisham,  “ Poor  dear  soul ! Certainly  not 
to  be  expected  to  look  well,  poor  thing.  The  idea  ! ” 

“And  how  are  you  ?”  said  Miss  Havisham  to  Camilla.  As  we  were  close  to 
Camilla  then,  I would  have  stopped  as  a matter  of  course,  only  Miss  Havisham 
wouldn’t  stop.  We  swept  on,  and  I felt  that  I was  highly  obnoxious  to  Camilla. 
“ Thank  you,  Miss  Havisham,”  she  returned,  “ I am  as  well  as  can  be  expected.” 
“Why,  what’s  the  matter  with  you?”  asked  Miss  Havisham,  with  exceeding 
sharpness. 

“Nothing  worth  mentioning,”  replied  Camilla.  “I  don’t  wish  to  make  a 
display  of  my  feelings,  but  I have  habitually  thought  of  you  more  in  the  night 
than  I am  quite  equal  to.” 

“ Then  don’t  think  of  me,”  retorted  Miss  Havisham. 

“Very  easily  said  ! ” remarked  Camilla,  amiably  repressing  a sob,  while  a hitch 
came  into  her  upper  lip,  and  her  tears  overflowed.  “ Raymond  is  a witness  what 
ginger  and  sal  volatile  I am  obliged  to  take  in  the  night.  Raymond  is  a witness 
what  nervous  jerkings  I have  in  my  legs.  Chokings  and  nervous  jerkings,  however, 
are  nothing  new  to  me  when  I think  with  anxiety  of  those  I love.  If  I could  be 
less  affectionate  and  sensitive,  I should  have  a better  digestion  and  an  iron  set  of 
nerves.  I am  sure  I wish  it  could  be  so.  But  as  to  not  thinking  of  you  in  the 
night — the  idea  ! ” Here,  a burst  of  tears. 

The  Raymond  referred  to,  I understood  to  be  the  gentleman  present,  and  him 
I understood  to  be  Mr.  Camilla.  He  came  to  the  rescue  at  this  point,  and  said  in 
a consolatory  and  complimentary  voice,  “ Camilla,  my  dear,  it  is  well  known  that 
your  family  feelings  are  gradually  undermining  you  to  the  extent  of  making  one  o' 
your  legs  shorter  than  the  other.” 

“ I am  not  aware,”  observed  the  grave  lady  whose  voice  I had  heard  but  once; 
“ that  to  think  of  any  person  is  to  make  a great  claim  apon  that  person,  my  dear.” 


274 


Great  Expectations . 


Miss  Sarah  Pocket,  whom  I now  saw  to  be  a little  dry  brown  corrugated  old 
woman,  with  a small  face  that  might  have  been  made  of  walnut  shells,  and  a large 
mouth  like  a cat’s  without  the  whiskers,  supported  this  position  by  saying,  “ No, 
indeed,  my  dear.  Hem  ! ” 

“ Thinking  is  easy  enough,”  said  the  grave  lady. 

“What  is  easier,  you  know  ?”  assented  Miss  Sarah  Pocket. 

“ Oh,  yes,  yes  ! ” cried  Camilla,  whose  fermenting  feelings  appeared  to  rise  from 
her  legs  to  her  bosom.  “ It’s  all  very  true  ! It’s  a weakness  to  be  so  affectionate, 
but  I can’t  help  it.  No  doubt  my  health  would  be  much  better  if  it  was  otherwise, 
still  I wouldn’t  change  my  disposition  if  1 could.  It’s  the  cause  of  much  suffering, 
but  it’s  a consolation  to  know  I possess  it,  when  I wake  up  in  the  night.”  Here 
another  burst  of  feeling. 

Miss  Havisham  and  I had  never  stopped  all  this  time,  but  kept  going  round  and 
round  the  room  : now,  brushing  against  the  skirts  of  the  visitors  : now,  giving  them 
the  whole  length  of  the  dismal  chamber. 

“ There’s  Matthew  ! ” said  Camilla.  “ Never  mixing  with  any  natural  ties,  never 
coming  here  to  see  how  Miss  Havisham  is  ! I have  taken  to  the  sofa  with  my  stay- 
lace  cut,  and  have  lain  there  hours,  insensible,  with  my  head  over  the  side,  and  my 
hair  all  down,  and  my  feet  I don’t  know  where ” 

(“  Much  higher  than  your  head,  my  love,”  said  Mr.  Camilla.) 

“I  have  gone  off  into  that  state,  hours  and  hours,  on  account  of  Matthew’s 
strange  and  inexplicable  conduct,  and  nobody  has  thanked  me.” 

“ Really  I must  say  I should  think  not ! ” interposed  the  grave  lady. 

“ You  see,  my  dear,”  added  Miss  Sarah  Pocket  (a  blandly  vicious  personage), 
“ the  question  to  put  to  yourself  is,  who  did  you  expect  to  thank  you,  my  love  ? ” 

“ Without  expecting  any  thanks,  or  anything  of  the  sort,”  resumed  Camilla,  “ I 
have  remained  in  that  state  hours  and  hours,  and  Raymond  is  a witness  of  the 
extent  to  which  I have  choked,  and  what  the  total  inefficacy  of  ginger  has  been, 
and  I have  been  heard  at  the  pianoforte -tuner’s  across  the  street,  where  the  poor 
mistaken  children  have  even  supposed  it  to  be  pigeons  cooing  at  a distance — and 

now  to  be  told ” Here  Camilla  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  and  began  to  be 

quite  chemical  as  to  the  formation  of  new  combinations  there. 

When  this  same  Matthew  was  mentioned,  Miss  Havisham  stopped  me  and  herself, 
and  stood  looking  at  the  speaker.  This  change  had  a great  influence  in  bringing 
Camilla’s  chemistry  to  a sudden  end. 

“ Matthew  will  come  and  see  me  at  last,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  sternly,  “ when 
I am  laid  on  that  table.  That  will  be  his  place — there,”  striking  the  table  with 
her  stick,  “ at  my  head ! And  yours  will  be  there  ! And  your  husband’s  there  ! 
And  Sarah  Pocket’s  there  ! And  Georgiana’s  there  ! • Now  you  all  know  where 
to  take  your  stations  when  you  come  to  feast  upon  me.  And  now  go  ! ” 

At  the  mention  of  each  name,  she  had  struck  the  table  with  her  stick  in  a new 
place.  She  now  said,  “ Walk  me,  walk  me  ! ” and  we  went  on  again. 

“I  suppose  there’s  nothing  to  be  done,”  exclaimed  Camilla,  “ but  comply  and 
depart.  It’s  something  to  have  seen  the  object  of  one’s  love  and  duty,  even  for  so 
short  a time.  I shall  think  of  it  with  a melancholy  satisfaction  when  I wake  up 
in  the  night.  I wish  Matthew  could  have  that  comfort,  but  he  sets  it  at  defiance. 
I am  determined  not  to  make  a display  of  my  feelings,  but  it’s  very  hard  to  be  told 
one  wants  to  feast  on  one’s  relations — as  if  one  was  a Giant — and  to  be  told  to  go. 
The  bare  idea  !” 

Mr.  Camilla  interposing,  as  Mrs.  Camilla  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heaving  bosom, 
that  lady  assumed  an  unnatural  fortitude  of  manner  which  I supposed  to  be 
expressive  of  an  intention  to  drop  and  choke  when  out  of  view,  and  kissing  her 
hand  to  Miss  Havisham,  was  escorted  forth.  Sarah  Pocket  and  Georgiana 


Beggar  my  Neighbour. 


27S 


contended  who  should  remain  last ; but,  Sarah  was  too  knowing  to  be  outdone, 
and  ambled  round  Georgiana  with  that  artful  slipperiness,  that  the  latter  was 
obliged  to  take  precedence.  Sarah  Pocket  then  made  her  separate  effect  of 
departing  with  “ Bless  you,  Miss  Havisham  dear  ! ” and  with  a smile  of  forgiving 
pity  on  her  walnut-shell  countenance  for  the  weaknesses  of  the  rest. 

While  Estella  was  away  lighting  them  down,  Miss  Havisham  still  walked  with 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  but  more  and  more  slowly.  At  last  she  stopped  before 
the  fire,  and  said,  after  muttering  and  looking  at  it  some  seconds : 

“ This  is  my  birthday,  Pip.” 

I was  going  to  wish  her  many  happy  returns,  when  she  lifted  her  stick. 

“ I don’t  suffer  it  to  be  spoken  of.  I don’t  suffer  those  who  were  here  just  now,  or 
any  one,  to  speak  of  it.  They  come  here  on  the  day,  but  they  dare  not  refer  to  it.” 

Of  course  I made  no  further  effort  to  refer  to  it. 

“ On  this  day  of  the  year,  long  before  you  were  born,  this  heap  of  decay,” 
stabbing  with  her  crutched  stick  at  the  pile  of  cobwebs  on  the  table  but  not  touch- 
ing it,  “was  brought  here.  It  and  I have  worn  away  together.  The  mice  have 
gnawed  at  it,  and  sharper  teeth  than  teeth  of  mice  have  gnawed  at  me.” 

She  held  the  head  of  her  stick  against  her  heart  as  she  stood  looking  at  the 
table ; she  in  her  once  white  dress,  all  yellow  and  withered  ; the  once  white 
cloth  all  yellow  and  withered ; everything  around,  in  a state  to  crumble  under 
a touch. 

“When  the  ruin  is  complete,”  said  she,  with  a ghastly  look,  “ and  when  they 
lay  me  dead,  in  my  bride’s  dress  on  the  bride’s  table — which  shall  be  done,  and 
which  will  be  the  finished  curse  upon  him — so  much  the  better  if  it  is  done  on 
this  day  ! ” 

She  stood  looking  at  the  table  as  if  she  stood  looking  at  her  own  figure  lying 
there.  I remained  quiet.  Estella  returned,  and  she  too  remained  quiet.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  we  continued  thus  a long  time.  In  the  heavy  air  of  the  room, 
and  the  heavy  darkness  that  brooded  in  its  remoter  corners,  I even  had  an  alarm- 
ing fancy  that  Estella  and  I might  presently  begin  to  decay. 

At  length,  not  coming  out  of  her  distraught  state  by  degrees,  but  in  an  instant, 
Miss  Havisham  said,  “Let  me  see  you  two  play  at  cards;  why  have  you  not 
begun?”  With  that,  we  returned  to  her  room,  and  sat  down  as  before;  I was 
beggared,  as  before ; and  again,  as  before,  Miss  Havisham  watched  us  all  the 
time,  directed  my  attention  to  Estella’s  beauty,  and  made  me  notice  it  the  more 
by  trying  her  jewels  on  Estella’s  breast  and  hair. 

Estella,  for  her  part,  likewise  treated  me  as  before  ; except  that  she  did  not 
condescend  to  speak.  When  we  had  played  some  half-dozen  games,  a day  was 
appointed  for  my  return,  and  I was  taken  down  into  the  yard  to  be  fed  in  the 
former  dog-like  manner.  There,  too,  I was  again  left  to  wander  about  as  I liked. 

It  is  not  much  to  the  purpose  whether  a gate  in  that  garden  wall  which  I had 
scrambled  up  to  peep  over  on  the  last  occasion  was,  on  that  last  occasion,  open  or 
shut.  Enough  that  I saw  no  gate  then,  and  that  I saw  one  now.  As  it  stood 
open,  and  as  I knew  that  Estella  had  let  the  visitors  out — for,  she  had  returned 
with  the  keys  in  her  hand — I sticlled  into  the  garden,  and  strolled  all  over  it.  It 
was  quite  a wilderness,  and  there  were  old  melon-frames  and  cucumber-frames  in 
it,  which  seemed  in  their  decline  to  have  produced  a spontaneous  growth  of  weak 
attempts  at  pieces  of  old  hats  and  boots,  with  now  and  then  a weedy  offshoot  into 
the  likeness  of  a battered  saucepan. 

When  I had  exhausted  the  garden  and  a greenhouse  with  nothing  in  it  but  a 
fallen-down  grape-vine  and  some  bottles,  I found  myself  in  the  dismal  corner 
upon  which.  I had  looked  out  of  window.  Never  questioning  for  a moment  that 
the  house  was  now  empty,  I looked  in  at  another  window,  and  found  myself,  to 


Great  Expectations . 


tny  great  surprise,  exchanging  a broad  stare  with  a pale  young  gentleman  with  red 
eyelids  and  light  hair. 

This  pale  young  gentleman  quickly  disappeared,  and  re-appeared  beside  me. 
He  had  been  at  his  books  when  I had  found  myself  staring  at  him,  and  I now  saw 
that  he  was  inky. 

“ Halloa ! ” said  he,  “ young  fellow  ! ” 

Halloa  being  a general  observation  which  I had  usually  observed  to  be  best 
answered  by  itself,  I said  “ Halloa  !”  politely  omitting  young  fellow. 

“ Who  let  you  in  ?”  said  he. 

“ Miss  Estella.”  * : 

“ Who  gave  you  leave  to  prowl  about  ?M  < 

“ Miss  Estella.” 

“ Come  and  fight,”  said  the  pale  young  gentleman. 

What  could  I do  hut  follow  him  ? I have  often  asked  myself  the  question  since : 
but,  what  else  could  I do  ? His  manner  was  so  final  and  I was  so  astonished,  that 
I followed  where  he  led,  as  if  I had  been  under  a spell. 

“ Stop  a minute,  though,”  he  said,  wheeling  round  before  we  had  gone  many 
paces.  “ I ought  to  give  you  a reason  for  fighting,  too.  There  it  is  ! ” In  a most 
irritating  manner  he  instantly  slapped  his  hands  against  one  another,  daintily  flung 
one  of  his  legs  up  behind  him,  pulled  my  hair,  slapped  his  hands  again,  dipped 
his  head,  and  butted  it  into  my  stomach. 

The  bull-like  proceeding  last  mentioned,  besides  that  it  was  unquestionably  to 
be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a liberty,  was  particularly  disagreeable  just  after  bread 
and  meat.  I therefore  hit  out  at  him,  and  was  going  to  hit  out  again,  when  he 
said,  “Aha!  Would  you?”  and  began  dancing  backwards  and  forwards  in  a 
manner  quite  unparalleled  within  my  limited  experience. 

“ Laws  of  the  game  1 ” said  he.  Here,  he  skipped  from  his  left  leg  on  to  his 
right.  “ Regular  rules  ! ” Here,  he  skipped  from  his  right  leg  on  to  his  left.  “ Come 
to  the  ground,  and  go  through  the  preliminaries  ! ” Here,  he  dodged  backwards 
and  forwards,  and  did  all  sorts  of  things  while  I looked  helplessly  at  him. 

1 was  secretly  afraid  of  him  when  I saw  him  so  dexterous ; but,  I felt  morally 
and  physically  convinced  that  his  light  head  of  hair  could  have  had  no  business  in 
the  pit  of  my  stomach,  and  that  I had  a right  to  consider  it  irrelevant  when  so 
obtruded  on  my  attention.  Therefore,  I followed  him  without  a word,  to  a retired 
nook  of  the  garden,  formed  by  the  junction  of  two  walls  and  screened  by  some 
rubbish.  On  his  asking  me  if  I was  satisfied  with  the  ground,  and  on  my  reply- 
ing Yes,  he  begged  my  leave  to  absent  himself  for  a moment,  and  quickly  returned 
with  a bottle  of  water  and  a sponge  dipped  in  vinegar.  “ Available  for  both,”  he 
said,  placing  these  against  the  wall.  And  then  fell  to  pulling  off,  not  only  his 
jacket  and  waistcoat,  but  his  shirt  too,  in  a manner  at  once  light-hearted,  business- 
like, and  bloodthirsty. 

Although  he  did  not  look  very  healthy — having  pimples  on  his  face,  and  a 
breaking  out  on  his  mouth — these  dreadful  preparations  quite  appalled  me.  I 
judged  him  to  be  about  my  own  age,  but  he  was  much  taller,  and  he  had  a way 
of  spinning  himself  about  that  was  full  of  appearance.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a 
young  gentleman  in  a grey  suit  (when  not  denuded  for  battle),  wilh  his  elbows, 
knees,  wrists,  and  heels  considerably  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  him  as  to 
development. 

My  heart  failed  me  when  I saw  him  squaring  at  me  with  every  demonstration 
of  mechanical  nicety,  and  eyeing  my  anatomy  as  it  he  were  minutely  choosing  his 
Hone.  I never  have  been  so  surprised  in  my  life,  as  I was  when  I let  out  the  first 
blow,  and  saw  him  lying  on  his  back,  looking  up  at  me  with  a bloody  nose  and  his 
fa:  e exceedingly  foie-shortened. 


277 


The  pale  young  gentleman  s blooa* 

But,  he  was  on  his  feet  directly,  and  after  sponging  himself  with  a gieat  show 
5>f  dexterity  began  squaring  again.  The  second  greatest  surprise  I have  ever  had 
in  my  life  was  seeing  him  on  his  back  again,  looking  up  at  me  out  of  a black  eye. 

His  spirit  inspired  me  with  great  respect.  He  seemed  to  have  no  strength,  and 
he  never  once  hit  me  hard,  and  he  was  always  knocked  down ; but,  he  would  be 
up  again  in  a moment,  sponging  himself  or  drinking  out  of  the  water-bottle,  with 
the  greatest  satisfaction  in  seconding  himself  according  to  form,  and  then  came  at 
me  with  an  air  and  a show  that  made  me  believe  he  really  was  going  to  do  for  me 
at  last.  He  got  heavily  bruised,  for  I am  sorry  to  record  that  the  more  I hit  him, 
the  harder  I hit  him  ; but,  he  came  up  again  and  again  and  again,  until  at  last  he 
got  a bad  fall  with  the  back  of  his  head  against  the  wall.  Even  aftef  that  crisis  in 
our  affairs,  he  got  up  and  turned  round  and  round  confusedly  a few  times,  not 
knowing  where  I w as  ; but  finally  went  on  his  knees  to  his  sponge  and  threw  it 
up  : at  the  same  time  panting  out,  “ That  means  you  have  won.” 

He  seemed  so  brave  and  innocent,  that  although  I had  not  proposed  the  contest, 
I felt  but  a gloomy  satisfaction  in  my  victory.  Indeed,  I go  so  far  as  to  hope  that 
I regarded  myself  while  dressing,  as  a species  of  savage  young  wolf,  or  other  wild 
beast.  However,  I got  dressed,  darkly  wiping  my  sanguinary  face  at  intervals,  and 
I said,  “Can  I help  you  ?”  and  he  said,  “No  thankee,”  and  I said,  “ Good  after- 
noon,” and  he  said,  “ Same  to  you.” 

When  I got  into  the  court-yard,  I found  Estella  waiting  with  the  keys.  But, 
she  neither  asked  me  where  I had  been,  nor  why  I had  kept  her  waiting  ; and 
there  was  a bright  flush  upon  her  face,  as  though  something  had  happened  to 
delight  her.  Instead  of  going  straight  to  the  gate,  too,  she  stepped  back  into  the 
passage,  and  beckoned  me. 

“ Come  here ! You  may  kiss  me  if  you  like.” 

I kissed  her  cheek  as  she  turned  it  to  me.  I think  I would  have  gone  through 
i great  deal  to  kiss  her  cheek.  But,  I felt  that  the  kiss  was  given  to  the  coarse 
common  boy  as  a piece  of  money  might  have  been,  and  that  it  was  worth 
nothing. 

What  with  the  birthday  visitors,  and  what  with  the  cards,  and  what  with  the 
fight,  my  stay  had  lasted  so  long,  that  when  I neared  home  the  light  on  the  spit 
of  sand  off  the  point  on  the  marshes  was  gleaming  against  a black  night-sky,  and 
Joe’s  furnace  was  flinging  a path  of  fire  across  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

My  mind  grew  very  uneasy  on  the  subject  of  the  pale  young  gentleman.  The 
more  I thought  of  the  fight,  and  recalled  the  pale  young  gentleman  on  his  back  in 
various  stages  of  puffy  and  incrimsoned  countenance,  the  more  certain  it  appeared 
that  something  would  be  done  to  me.  I felt  that  the  pale  young  gentleman’s 
blood  was  on  my  head,  and  that  the  Law  would  avenge  it.  Without  having  any 
definite  idea  of  the  penalties  I had  incurred,  it  was  clear  to  me  that  village  boys 
could  not  go  stalking  about  the  country,  ravaging  the  houses  of  gentlefolks  and 
pitching  into  the  studious  youth  of  England,  without  laying  themselves  open  to 
severe  punishment.  For  some  days,  I even  kept  close  at  home,  and  looked  out  at 
the  kitchen  door  with  the  greatest  caution  and  trepidation  before  going  on  an 
errand,  lest  the  officers  of  the  County  Jail  should  pounce  upon  me.  The  pale 
young  gentleman’s  nose  had  stained  my  trousers,  and  I tried  to  wash  out  that 
evidence  of  my  guilt  in  the  dead  of  night.  I had  cut  my  knuckles  against  the  paid 


278 


Great  Expectations. 


young  gentleman’s  teeth,  and  I twisted  my  imagination  into  a thousand  tangles, 
as  I devised  incredible  ways  of  accounting  for  that  damnatory  circumstance  whet 
I should  be  haled  before  the  Judges. 

When  the  day  came  round  for  my  return  to  the  scene  of  the  deed  of  violence, 
my  terrors  reached  their  height.  Whether  myrmidons  of  Justice,  specially  sent 
down  from  London,  would  be  lying  in  ambush  behind  the  gate  ? Whether  Miss 
Havisham,  preferring  to  take  personal  vengeance  for  an  outrage  done  to  her  house, 
might  rise  in  those  grave-clothes  of  hers,  draw  a pistol,  and  shoot  me  dead  ? 
Whether  suborned  boys — a numerous  band  of  mercenaries — might  be  engaged  to 
fall  upon  me  in  the  brewery,  and  cuff  me  until  I was  no  more  ? It  was  high 
testimony  to  my  confidence  in  the  spirit  of  the  pale  young  gentleman,  that  I never 
imagined  him  accessory  to  these  retaliations ; they  always  came  into  my  mind  as 
the  acts  of  injudicious  relatives  of  his,  goaded  on  by  the  state  of  his  visage  and  an 
indignant  sympathy  with  the  family  features. 

However,  go  to  Miss  Havisham’s  I must,  and  go  I did.  And  behold  ! nothing 
came  of  the  late  struggle.  It  was  not  alluded  to  in  any  way,  and  no  pale  young 
gentleman  was  to  be  discovered  on  the  premises.  I found  the  same  gate  open, 
and  I explored  the  garden,  and  even  looked  in  at  the  windov7s  of  the  detached 
house  ; but,  my  view  was  suddenly  stopped  by  the  closed  shuc^rs  within,  and  all 
was  lifeless.  Only  in  the  corner  where  the  combat  had  taken  place,  could  I detect 
any  evidence  of  the  young  gentleman’s  existence.  There  were  traces  of  his  gore 
in  that  spot,  and  I covered  them  with  garden-mould  from  the  eye  of  man. 

On  the  broad  landing  between  Miss  Havisham’s  own  room  and  that  other  room 
in  which  the  long  table  was  laid  out,  I saw  a garden-chair — a light  chair  on  wheels, 
that  you  pushed  from  behind.  It  had  been  placed  there  since  my  last  visit,  and  I 
entered,  that  same  day,  on  a regular  occupation  of  pushing  Miss  Havisham  in  this 
chair  (when  she  was  tired  of  walking  with  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder)  round  her 
own  room,  and  across  the  landing,  and  round  the  other  room.  Over  and  over  and 
over  again,  we  would  make  these  journeys,  and  sometimes  they  would  last  as  long 
as  three  hours  at  a stretch.  I insensibly  fall  into  a general  mention  of  these  journeys 
as  numerous,  because  it  was  at  once  settled  that  I should  return  every  alternate  day 
at  noon  for  these  purposes,  and  because  I am  now  going  to  sum  up  a period  of  at 
least  eight  or  ten  months. 

As  we  began  to  be  more  used  to  one  another,  Miss  Havisham  talked  more  to 
me,  and  asked  me  such  questions  as  what  had  I learnt  and  what  was  I going  to  be  ? 
I told  her  I was  going  to  be  apprenticed  to  Joe,  I believed  ; and  I enlarged  upon 
my  knowing  nothing  and  wanting  to  know  everything,  in  the  hope  that  she  might 
offer  some  help  towards  that  desirable  end.  But,  she  did  not ; on  the  contrary, 
she  seemed  to  prefer  my  being  ignorant.  Neither  did  she  ever  give  me  any 
money  or  anything  but  my  daily  dinner — nor  even  stipulate  that  I should  be  paid 
for  my  services. 

Estella  was  always  about,  and  always  let  me  in  and  out,  but  never  told  me  I 
might  kiss  her  again.  Sometimes,  she  would  coldly  tolerate  me  ; sometimes,  she 
would  condescend  to  me  ; sometimes,  she  would  be  quite  familiar  with  me  ; some- 
times, she  would  tell  me  energetically  that  she  hated  me.  Miss  Havisham  would 
often  ask  me  in  a whisper,  or  when  we  were  alone,  “ Does  she  grow  prettier  and 
prettier,  Pip  ?”  And  when  I said  Yes  (for  indeed  she  did),  would  seem  to  enjoy 
it  greedily.  Also,  when  we  played  at  cards  Miss  Havisham  would  look  on,  with 
a miserly  relish  of  Estella’s  moods,  whatever  they  were.  And  sometimes,  when 
her  moods  were  so  many  and  so  contradictory  of  one  another  that  I was  puzzled 
what  to  say  or  do,  Miss  Havisham  would  embrace  her  with  lavish  fondness,  mur- 
muring something  in  her  ear  that  sounded  like  “ Break  their  hearts,  my  pride  and 
^ope,  break  their  hearts  and  have  no  mercy ! ” 


279 


Biddy,  and  my  Prospects  generally. 

There  was  a song  Joe  used  to  hum  fragments  of  at  the  forge,  of  which  the 
burden  was  Old  Clem.  This  was  not  a very  ceremonious  way  of  rendering  homage 
to  a patron  saint ; but  I believe  Old  Clem  stood  in  that  relation  towards  smiths 
It  was  a song  that  imitated  the  measure  of  beating  upon  iron,  and  was  a mere 
lyrical  excuse  foi  the  introduction  of  Old  Clem’s  respected  name.  Thus,  you  were 
to  hammer  boys  round — Old  Clem  ' With  a thump  and  a sound — Old  Clem  ! 
Beat  it  out,  beat  it  out — Old  Clem!  With  a clink  for  the  stout — Old  Clem  f 
Blow  the  tire,  blow  the  tire — Old  Clem  ! Roaring  dryer,  soaring  higher — Old 
Clem  ! One  day  soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  chair,  Miss  Havisham  suddenly 
saying  to  me,  with  the  impatient  movement  of  her  fingers,  “There,  there,  there! 
Sing  !”  I was  surprised  into  crooning  this  ditty  as  I pushed  her  over  the  floor. 
It  happened  so  to  catch  her  fancy  that  she  took  it  up  in  a low  brooding  voice  as  if 
she  were  singing  in  her  sleep.  After  that,  it  became  customary  wfith  us  to  have  it 
as  we  moved  about,  and  Estella  would  often  join  in  ; though  the  whole  strain  was 
so  subdued,  even  when  there  were  three  of  us,  that  it  made  less  noise  in  the  grim 
old  house  than  the  lightest  breath  of  wind. 

What  could  I become  with  these  surroundings  ? How  could  my  character  fail 
to  be  influenced  by  them  ? Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  my  thoughts  were  dazed, 
as  my  eyes  were,  when  I came  out  into  the  natural  light  from  the  misty  yellow  rooms  ? 

Perhaps  I might  have  told  Joe  about  the  pale  young  gentleman,  if  I had  not 
previously  been  betrayed  into  those  enormous  inventions  to  which  I had  confessed. 
Under  the  circumstances,  I felt  that  Joe  could  hardly  fail  to  discern  in  the  pale 
young  gentleman,  an  appropriate  passenger  to  be  put  into  the  black  velvet  coach  ; 
therefore,  I said  nothing  of  him.  Besides  : that  shrinking  from  having  Miss 
Havisham  and  Estella  discussed,  which  had  come  upon  me  in  the  beginning,  grew 
much  more  potent  as  time  went  on.  I reposed  complete  confidence  in  no  one  but 
Biddy  ; but,  I told  poor  Biddy  everything.  Why  it  came  natural  for  me  to  do  so, 
and  why  Biddy  had  a deep  concern  in  everything  I told  her,  I did  not  know  then, 
though  I think  I know  now. 

Meanwhile,  councils  went  on  in  the  kitchen  at  home,  fraught  with  almost  insup- 
portable aggravation  to  my  exasperated  spirit.  That  ass,  Pumblechook,  used  often 
to  come  over  of  a night  for  the  purpose  of  discussing  my  prospects  with  my  sister ; 
and  I really  do  believe  (to  this  hour  with  less  penitence  than  I ought  to  feel),  that 
if  these  hands  could  have  taken  a linchpin  out  of  his  chaise-cart,  they  would  have 
done  it.  The  miserable  man  was  a man  of  that  confined  stolidity  of  mind,  that  he 
could  not  discuss  my  prospects  without  having  me  before  him — as  it  were,  to  ope- 
rate upon — and  he  would  drag  me  up  from  my  stool  (usually  by  the  collar)  where 
I was  quiet  in  a corner,  and,  putting  me  before  the  fire  as  if  I were  going  to  be 
cooked,  would  begin  by  saying,  “ Now,  Mum,  here  is  this  boy  ! Here  is  this  boy 
which  you  brought  up  by  hand.  Hold  up  your  head,  boy,  and  be  for  ever  grateful 
unto  them  which  so  did  do.  Now,  Mum,  with  respections  to  this  boy!”  And 
then  he  would  rumple  my  hair  the  wrong  way — which  from  my  earliest  remem- 
brance, as  already  hinted,  I have  in  my  soul  denied  the  right  of  any  fellow-creature 
to  do — and  would  hold  me  before  him  by  the  sleeve  : a spectacle  of  imbecility  only 
to  be  equalled  by  himself. 

Then,  he  and  my  sister  would  pair  off  in  such  nonsensical  speculations  about 
Miss  Havisham,  and  about  what  she  would  do  with  me  and  for  me,  that  I used  to 
want-  -quite  painfully — to  burst  into  spiteful  tears,  fly  at  pumblechook,  and  pum- 
mel him  all  over.  In  these  dialogues,  my  sister  spoke  to  me  as  if  she  were 
morally  wrenching  one  of  my  teeth  out  at  every  reference  ; while  Pumblechook 
himself,  self-constituted  my  patron,  would  sit  supervising  me  with  a depreciatory 
eye,  like  the  architect  of  my  fortunes  who  thought  himself  engaged  in  a veiy  unre* 
munerative  job. 


Great  Expectations . 


*80 


In  these  discussions,  Joe  bore  no  part.  But  he  was  often  talked  at,  while  they 
were  in  progress,  by  reason  of  Mrs.  Joe’s  perceiving  that  he  was  not  favourable 
to  my  being  taken  from  the  forge.  I was  fully  old  enough  now,  to  be  apprenticed 
to  Joe  ; and  when  Joe  sat  with  the  poker  on  his  knees  thoughtfully  raking  out  the 
ashes  between  the  lower  bars,  my  sister  would  so  distinctly  construe  that  innocent 
action  into  opposition  on  his  part,  that  she  would  dive  at  him,  take  the  poker  out 
of  his  hands,  shake  him,  and  put  it  away.  There  was  a most  irritating  end  to  every 
one  of  these  debates.  All  in  a moment,  with  nothing  to  lead  up  to  it,  my  sister  would 
stop  herself  in  a yawn,  and  catching  sight  of  me  as  it  were  incidentally,  would 
swoop  upon  me  with  “ Come  ! there’s  enough  o {you  ! You  get  along  to  bed  ; 
you\z  given  trouble  enough  for  one  night,  I hope  !”  As  if  I had  besought  them 
as  a favour  to  bother  my  life  out. 

We  went  on  in  this  way  for  a long  time,  and  it  seemed  likely  that  we  should 
continue  to  go  on  in  this  way  for  a long  time,  when,  one  day,  Miss  Havisham 
stopped  short  as  she  and  I were  walking,  she  leaning  on  my  shoulder  ; and  said 
with  some  displeasure  : 

“ You  are  growing  tall,  Pip  !” 

I thought  it  best  to  hint,  through  the  medium  of  a meditative  look,  that  this 
might  be  occasioned  by  circumstances  over  which  I had  no  control. 

She  said  no  more  at  the  time  ; but,  she  presently  stopped  and  looked  at  me  again  ; 
and  presently  again  ; and  after  that,  looked  frowning  and  moody.  On  the  next 
day  of  my  attendance,  when  our  usual  exercise  was  over,  and  I had  landed  her  at 
her  dressing-table,  she  stayed  me  with  a movement  of  her  impatient  fingers  : 

“ Tell  me  the  name  again  of  that  blacksmith  of  yours. ” 

“ Joe  Gargery,  ma’am.” 

“Meaning  the  master  you  were  to  be  apprenticed  to  ?” 

“Yes,  Miss  Havisham  ” 

“You  had  better  be  apprenticed  at  once.  Would  Gargery  come  here  with  you, 
and  bring  your  indentures,  do  you  think  ?” 

I signified  that  I had  no  doubt  he  would  take  it  as  an  honour  to  be  asked. 

“ Then  let  him  come.” 

“ At  any  particular  time,  Miss  Havisham  ?” 

“ There,  there  ! I know  nothing  about  times.  Let  him  come  soon,  and  come 
alone  with  you.” 

When  I got  home  at  night,  and  delivered  this  message  for  Joe,  my  sister  “went 
on  the  Rampage,”  in  a more  alarming  degree  than  at  any  previous  period.  She 
asked  me  and  Joe  whether  we  supposed  she  was  door-mats  under  our  feet,  and  how 
we  dared  to  use  her  so,  and  what  company  we  graciously  thought  she  was  fit  for  ? 
When  she  had  exhausted  a torrent  of  such  inquiries,  she  threw  a candlestick  at  Joe, 
burst  into  a loud  sobbing,  got  out  the  dustpan — which  was  always  a very  bad  sign 
— put  on  her  coarse  apron,  and  began  cleaning  up  to  a terrible  extent.  Not  satis- 
fied with  a dry  cleaning,  she  took  to  a pail  and  scrubbing-brush,  and  cleaned  us  out 
of  house  and  home,  so  that  we  stood  shivering  in  the  back-yard.  It  was  ten  o’clock 
at  night  before  we  ventured  to  creep  in  again,  and  then  she  asked  Joe  why  he 
had  not  married  a Negress  Slave  at  once  ? Joe  offered  no  answer,  poor  fellow  but 
stood  feeling  his  whiskers  and  looking  dejectedly  at  me,  as  if  he  thought  it  really 
might  have  been  a better  speculation. 


Joe  at  Miss  Havisham  s . 


z$\ 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  a trial  to  my  feelings,  on  the  next  day  but  one,  to  see  Joe  arraying  himseli 
in  his  Sunday  clothes  to  accompany  me  to  Miss  Havisham’s.  However,  as  he 
thought  his  court-suit  necessary  to  the  occasion,  it  was  not  for  me  to  tell  him  that 
he  looked  far  better  in  his  working  dress  ; the  rather,  because  I knew  he  made 
himself  so  dreadfully  uncomfortable,  entirely  on  my  account,  and  that  it  was  for  me 
he  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  so  very  high  behind,  that  it  made  the  hair  on  the 
crown  of  his  head  stand  up  like  a tuft  of  feathers. 

At  breakfast-time,  my  sister  declared  her  intention  of  going  to  town  with  us,  and 
being  left  at  Uncle  Pumblechook’s,  and  called  for  “ when  we  had  done  with  our 
fine  ladies” — a way  of  putting  the  case,  from  which  Joe  appeared  inclined  to  augur 
the  worst.  The  forge  was  shut  up  for  the  day,  and  Joe  inscribed  in  chalk  upon 
the  door  (as  it  was  his  custom  to  do  on  the  very  rare  occasions  when  he  was  not  at 
work)  the  monosyllable  HOUT,  accompanied  by  a sketch  of  an  arrow  supposed  to 
be  flying  in  the  direction  he  had  taken. 

We  walked  to  town,  my  sister  leading  the  way  in  a very  large  beaver  bonnet, 
and  carrying  a basket  like  the  Great  Seal  of  England  in  plaited  straw,  a pair  o i 
pattens,  a spare  shawl,  and  an  umbrella,  though  it  was  a fine  bright  day.  I am 
not  quite  clear  whether  these  articles  were  earned  penitentially  or  ostentatiously  ; 
but,  I rather  think  they  were  displayed  as  articles  of  property — much  as  Cleopatra 
or  any  other  sovereign  lady  on  the  Rampage  might  exhibit  her  wealth  in  a pageant 
or  procession. 

When  we  came  to  Pumblechook’s,  my  sister  bounced  in  and  left  us.  As  it  was 
almost  noon,  Joe  and  I held  straight  on  to  Miss  Havisham’s  house.  Estella 
opened  the  gate  as  usual,  and,  the  moment  she  appeared,  Joe  took  his  hat  off  and 
stood  weighing  it  by  the  brim  in  both  his  hands  : as  if  he  had  some  urgent  reason 
in  his  mind  for  being  particular  to  half  a quarter  of  an  ounce. 

Estella  took  no  notice  of  either  of  us,  but  led  us  the  way  that  I knew  so  well,  I 
followed  next  to  her,  and  Joe  came  last.  When  I looked  back  at  Joe  in  the  long 
passage,  he  was  still  weighing  his  hat  with  the  greatest  care,  and  was  coming  after 
us  in  long  strides  on  the  tips  of  his  toes. 

Estella  told  me  we  were  both  to  go  in,  so  I took  Joe  by  the  coat-cuff  and  con- 
ducted him  into  Miss  Havisham’s  presence.  She  was  seated  at  her  dressing-table, 
and  looked  round  at  us  immediately. 

“ Oh!”  said  she  to  Joe.  “You  are  the  husband  of  the  sister  of  this  boy?” 

I could  hardly  have  imagined  dear  old  Joe  looking  so  unlike  himself  or  so  like 
some  extraordinary  bird  ; standing,  as  he  did,  speechless,  with  his  tuft  of  feathers 
ruffled,  and  his  mouth  open  as  if  he  wanted  a worm. 

“ You  are  the  husband,”  repeated  Miss  Havisham,  “ of  the  sister  of  this  boy  ?" 

It  was  very  aggravating  ; but,  throughout  the  interview,  Joe  persisted  in  address- 
sing Me  instead  of  Miss  Havisham. 

“ Which  I meantersay,  Pip,”  Joe  now  observed,  in  a manner  that  was  at  once 
expressive  of  forcible  argumentation,  strict  confidence,  and  great  politeness,  “ as  I 
hup  and  married  your  sister,  and  I were  at  the  time  what  you  might  call  (if  you 
was  any  ways  inclined)  a single  man.” 

“Well!”  said  Miss  Havisham.  “And  you  have  reared  the  boy,  with  the  in- 
tention of  taking  him  for  your  apprentice  ; is  that  so,  Mr.  Gargery  ?” 

“ You  know,  Pip,”  replied  Joe,  “ as  you  and  me  were  ever  friends,  and  it  were 
looked  for’ard  to  betwixt  us,  as  being  calc’lated  to  lead  to  larks.  Not  but  what 
Pip,  if  you  had  ever  made  objections  to  the  business — such  as  its  being  open  to 


282  Great  Expectations, 

black  and  sut,  or  such-like-— not  but  what  they  would  have  been  attended  to,  don’t 
you  see  ?” 

“Has  the  boy,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  “ ever  made  any  objection  ? Does  helik* 
the  trade  ?” 

•‘  Which  it  is  well  beknown  to  yourself,  Pip,”  returned  Joe,  strengthening  his 
former  mixture  of  argumentation,  confidence,  and  politeness,  “ that  it  were  the 
wish  of  your  own  hart.  ” (I  saw  the  idea  suddenly  break  upon  him  that  he  would  adapt 
his  epitaph  to  the  occasion,  before  he  went  on  to  say)  “And  there  weren’t  no 
objection  on  your  part,  and  Pip  it  were  the  great  wish  of  your  hart !” 

It  was  quite  in  vain  for  me  to  endeavour  to  make  him  sensible  that  he  ought  to 
speak  to  Miss  Havisham.  The  more  I made  faces  and  gestures  to  him  to  do  it, 
the  more  confidential,  argumentative,  and  polite,  he  persisted  in  being  to  Me. 

“ Have  you  brought  his  indentures  with  you  ?”  asked  Miss  Havisham. 

“Well,  Pip,  you  know,”  replied  Joe,  as  if  that  were  a little  unreasonable,  “you 
yourself  see  me  put  ’em  in  my  ’at,  and  therefore  you  know  as  they  are  here.” 
With  which  he  took  them  out,  and  gave  them,  not  to  Miss  Havisham,  but  to  me. 
I am  afraid  I was  ashamed  of  the  dear  good  fellow — I know  I was  ashamed  of  him 
— when  I saw  that  Estella  stood  at  the  back  of  Miss  Havisham’s  chair,  and  that 
her  eyes  laughed  mischievously.  I took  the  indentures  out  of  his  hand  and  gave 
them  to  Miss  Havisham. 

“ You  expected,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  as  she  looked  them  over,  “ no  premium 
with  the  boy?” 

“Joe!”  I remonstrated;  for  he  made  no  reply  at  all.  “Why  don’t  you 
answer ” 

“ Pip,”  returned  Joe,  cutting  me  short  as  if  he  were  hurt,  “ which  I meantersay 
that  were  not  a question  requiring  a answer  betwixt  yourself  and  me,  and  which 
you  know  the  answer  to  be  full  well  No.  You  know  it  to  be  No,  Pip,  and  where- 
fore should  I say  it  ?” 

Miss  Havisham  glanced  at  him  as  if  she  understood  what  he  really  was,  better 
than  I had  thought  possible,  seeing  what  he  was  there  ; and  took  up  a little  bag 
from  the  table  beside  her. 

“ Pip  has  earned  a premium  here,”  she  said,  “ and  here  it  is.  There  are  five* 
and-twenty  guineas  in  this  bag.  Give  it  to  your  master,  Pip  ?” 

As  if  he  were  absolutely  out  of  his  mind  with  the  wonder  awakened  in  him  by  her 
strange  figure  and  the  strange  room,  Joe,  even  at  this  pass,  persisted  in  addressing 
me. 

“ This  is  very  liberal  on  your  part,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  “ and  it  is  as  such  received 
and  grateful  welcome,  though  never  looked  for,  far  nor  near  nor  nowheres.  Ann 
now,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  conveying  to  me  a sensation,  first  of  burning  and  then  of 
freezing,  for  I felt  as  if  that  familiar  expression  were  applied  to  Miss  Havisham  ; 
“ and  now,  old  chap,  may  we  do  our  duty  ! May  you  and  me  do  our  duty,  both 
on  us  by  one  and  another,  and  by  them  which  your  liberal  present — have — con- 
weyed — to  be — for  the  satisfaction  of  mind — of — them  as  never — ” here  Joe  showed 
that  he  felt  he  had  fallen  into  frightful  difficulties,  until  he  triumphantly  rescued 
himself  with  the  words,  “ and  from  myself  far  be  it !”  These  words  had  such  a 
round  and  convincing  sound  for  him  that  he  said  them  twice. 

“ Good-bye,  Pip  !”  said  Miss  Havisham.  “ Let  them  out,  Estella.” 

•*  Am  I to  come  again,  Miss  Havisham  ?”  I asked? 

•‘No.  Gargery  is  your  master  now.  Gargery ! One  word  !” 

Thus  calling  him  back  as  I went  out  of  the  door,  I heard  her  say  to  Joe,  in  a 
distinct  emphatic  voice,  “ The  boy  has  been  a good  boy  here,  and  that  is  his 
reward.  Of  course,  as  an  honest  man,  you  will  expect  no  other  and  no  more.” 

How  Joe  got  out  of  the  room,  I have  never  been  able  to  determine ; but,  I know 


'Joe' s account  of  the  Proceedings. 


285 


that  when  he  did  get  out  he  was  steadily  proceeding  up-stairs  instead  of  coming 
down,  and  was  deaf  to  all  remonstrances  until  I went  after  him  and  laid  hold  of 
him.  In  another  minute  we  were  outside  the  gate,  and  it  was  locked,  and  Estella 
was  gone.  When  we  stood  in  the  daylight  alone  again,  Joe  backed  up  against  a 
wall,  and  said  to  me,  “Astonishing!”  And  there  he  remained  so  long,  saying 
“Astonishing”  at  intervals,  so  often,  that  I began  to  think  his  senses  were  never 
coming  back.  At  length,  he  prolonged  his  remark  into  “Pip,  I do  assure  you 
this  is  as-TON-isliing  !”  and  so,  by  degrees,  became  conversational  and  able  to  walk 
away. 

I have  reason  to  think  that  Joe’s  intellects  were  brightened  by  the  encounter  they 
had  passed  through,  and  that  on  our  way  to  Pumblechook’s,  he  invented  a subtle 
and  deep  design.  My  reason  is  to  be  found  in  what  took  place  in  Mr.  Pumble- 
chook’s parlour : where,  on  our  presenting  ourselves,  my  sister  sat  in  conference 
with  that  detested  seedsman. 

“ Well !”  cried  my  sister,  addressing  us  both  at  once.  “ And  what’s  happened  to 
you  ? I wonder  you  condescend  to  come  back  to  such  poor  society  as  this,  I am 
sure  I do  !” 

“Miss  Havisham,”  said  Joe,  with  a fixed  look  at  me,  like  an  effort  of  remem- 
brance, “ made  it  wery  partirk’ler  that  we  should  give  her — were  it  compliments 
or  respects,  Pip  ?” 

“ Compliments,”  I said. 

“Which  that  were  my  own  belief,”  answered  Joe — “ her  compliments  to  Mrs. 
J.  Gargery ” 

“ Much  good  they’ll  do  me  !”  observed  my  sister  : but  rather  gratified  too. 

“ And  wishing,”  pursued  Joe,  with  another  fixed  look  at  me,  like  another  effort 
of  remembrance,  “ that  the  state  of  Miss  Havisham’s  elth  were  sitch  as  would 
have — allowed,  were  it,  Pip  ?” 

“ Of  her  having  the  pleasure,”  I added. 

“ Of  ladies’  company,”  said  Joe.  And  drew  a long  breath. 

“ Well !”  cried  my  sister,  with  a mollified  glance  at  Mr.  Pumblechook.  “ She 
might  have  had  the  politeness  to  send  that  message  at  first,  but  it’s  better  late 
than  never.  And  what  did  she  give  young  Rantipole  here  ?” 

“ She  giv’  him,”  said  Joe,  “nothing.” 

Mrs.  Joe  was  going  to  break  out,  but  Joe  went  on. 

“What  she  giv’,”  said  Joe,  “she  giv’ to  his  friends.  ‘And  by  his  friends,’ 
were  her  explanation,  ‘I  mean  into  the  hands  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  J.  Gargery.’  Them 
were  her  words  ; ‘ Mrs.  J.  Gargery.’  She  mayn’t  have  know’d,”  added  Joe,  with 
an  appearance  of  reflection,  “ whether  it  were  Joe  or  Jorge.” 

My  sister  looked  at  Pumblechook  : who  smoothed  the  elbows  of  his  wooden 
armchair,  and  nodded  at  her  and  at  the  fire,  as  if  he  had  known  all  about  it 
beforehand. 

“And  how  much  have  you  got?”  asked  my  sister,  laughing.  Positively, 
laughing ! 

“ What  would  present  company  say  to  ten  pound  ?”  demanded  Joe. 

“They’d  say,”  returned  my  sister  curtly,  “pretty  well.  Not  too  much,  but 
pretty  well.” 

“ It’s  more  than  that,  then,”  said  Joe. 

That  fearful  impostor,  Pumblechook,  immediately  nodded,  and  said,  as  he 
rubbed  the  arms  of  his  chair  : “ It’s  more  than  that,  Mum.” 

“Why,  you  don’t  mean  to  say ” began  my  sister. 

“ Yes  I do,  Mum,”  said  Pumblechook ; “ but  wait  a bit.  Go  on,  Joseph.  Goo  I 
in  you  ! Go  on  !” 

“ What  would  present  company  say,”  proceeded  Joe,  “ to  twenty  pound  ?** 


284 


Great  Expectations . 


u Handsome  would  be  the  word,”  returned  my  sister. 

“Well  then,”  said  Joe,  “ It’s  more  than  twenty  pound.” 

That  abject  hypocrite,  Pumblechook,  nodded  again,  and  said  with  a patronising 
laugh,  “ It’s  more  than  that,  Mum.  Good  again  ! Follow  her  up,  Joseph  ! ” 

“Then  to  make  an  end  of  it,”  said  Joe,  delightedly  handing  the  bag  to  my 
sister ; “ it’s  five-and-twenty  pound.” 

“ It’s  five-and-twenty  pound,  Mum,”  echoed  that  basest  of  swindlers,  Pumble- 
chook, rising  to  shake  hands  with  her  ; “ and  it’s  no  more  than  your  merits  (as  I 
said  when  my  opinion  was  asked),  and  I wish  you  jo)  of  the  money  !” 

If  the  villain  had  stopped  here,  his  case  would  have  been  sufficiently  awful,  but 
he  blackened  his  guilt  by  proceeding  to  take  me  into  custody,  with  a right  oi 
patronage  that  left  all  his  former  criminality  far  behind. 

“ Now  you  see,  Joseph  and  wife,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  as  he  took  me 
by  the  arm  above  the  elbow,  “I  am  one  of  them  that  always  go  right’  through 
with  what  they’ve  begun.  This  boy  must  be  bound  out  of  hand.  That’s  my  way. 
Bound  out  of  hand.” 

“ Goodness  knows,  Uncle  Pumblechook,”  said  my  sister  (grasping  the  money), 
“ we’re  deeply  beholden  to  you.” 

“Never  mind  me,  Mum,” returned  that  diabolical cornchandler.  “A  pleasure’s 
a pleasure  all  the  world  over.  But  this  boy,  you  know ; we  must  have  him  bound. 
I said  I’d  see  to  it — to  tell  you  the  truth.” 

The  Justices  were  sitting  in  the  Town  Hall  near  at  hand,  and  we  at  once  went 
over  to  have  me  bound  apprentice  to  Joe  in  the  Magisterial  presence.  I say,  we 
went  over,  but  I was  pushed  over  by  Pumblechook,  exactly  as  if  I had  that 
moment  picked  a pocket  or  fired  a rick ; indeed,  it  was  the  general  impression  in 
Court  that  I had  been  taken  red-handed ; for,  as  Pumblechook  shoved  me  before 
him  through  the  crowd,  I heard  some  people  say,  “What’s  he  done  ?”  and  others, 
“ He’s  a young  ’un,  too,  but  looks  bad,  don’t  he  ?”  One  person  of  mild  and  bene- 
volent aspect  even  gave  me  a tract  ornamented  with  a woodcut  of  a malevolent 
young  man  fitted  up  with  a perfect  sausage-shop  of  fetters,  and  entitled,  To  BE 
READ  IN  MY  CELL. 

The  Hall  was  a queer  place,  I thought,  with  higher  pews  in  it  than  a church — 
and  with  people  hanging  over  the  pews  looking  on — and  with  mighty  Justices 
(one  with  a powdered  head)  leaning  back  in  chairs,  with  folded  arms,  or  taking 
snuff,  or  going  to  sleep,  or  writing,  or  reading  the  newspapers — and  with  some 
shining  black  portraits  on  the  walls,  which  my  unartistic  eye  regarded  as  a compo- 
sition of  hardbake  and  sticking-plaister.  Here,  in  a corner,  my  indentures  were 
duly  signed  and  attested,  and  I was  “ bound  Mr.  Pumblechook  holding  me  all 
the  while  as  if  we  had  looked  in  on  our  way  to  the  scaffold,  to  have  those  little 
preliminaries  disposed  of. 

When  we  had  come  out  again,  and  had  got  rid  of  the  boys  who  had  Seen  put 
into  great  spirits  by  the  expectation  of  seeing  me  publicly  tortured,  and  who  were 
much  disappointed  to  find  that  my  friends  were  merely  rallying  round  me,  we  went 
back  to  Pumblechook’s.  And  there  my  sister  became  so  excited  by  the  twenty- 
five  guineas,  that  nothing  would  serve  her  but  we  must  have  a dinner  out  of  that 
windfall,  at  the  Blue  Boar,  and  that  Mr.  Pumblechook  must  go  over  in  his  chaise- 
cart,  and  bring  the  Hubbles  and  Mr.  Wopsle. 

It  was  agreed  to  be  done ; and  a most  melancholy  day  I passed.  For,  it 
inscrutably  appeared  to  stand  to  reason,  in  the  minds  of  the  whole  company,  that 
I was  an  excrescence  on  the  entertainment.  And  to  make  it  worse,  they  all  asked 
me  from  time  to  time — in  short,  whenever  they  had  nothing  else  to  do — why  I 
didn’t  enjoy  myself?  And  what  could  I possibly  do  then,  but  say  that  I was 
enjoying  myself — when  I wasn’t! 


I am  ill  at  ease  in  my  mind . 


285 


However,  they  were  grown  up  and  had  their  own  way,  and  made  the  most  of  it 
That  swindling"  Pumblechook,  exalted  into  the  beneficent  contriver  of  the  whole 
occasion,  actually  took  the  top  of  the  table  ; and,  when  he  addressed  them  on  the 
subject  of  my  being  bound,  and  had  fiendishly  congratulated  them  on  my  being 
liable  to  imprisonment  if  I played  at  cards,  drank  strong  liquors,  kept  late  hours 
or  bad  company,  or  indulged  in  other  vagaries  which  the  form  of  my  indentures 
appeared  to  contemplate  as  next  to  inevitable,  he  placed  me  standing  on  a chair 
beside  him  to  illustrate  his  remarks. 

My  only  other  remembrances  of  the  great  festival  are,  That  they  wouldn’t  let  me 
go  to  sleep,  but  whenever  they  saw  me  dropping  off,  woke  me  up  and  told  me  to 
enjoy  myself.  That,  rather  late  in  the  evening  Mr.  Wopsle  gave  us  Collins’s  ode, 
and  threw  his  blood-stain’d  sword  in  thunder  down,  with  such  effect  that  a waiter 
came  in  and  said,  “ The  Commercials  underneath  sent  up  their  compliments,  and 
it  wasn’t  the  Tumblers’  Arms.”  That,  they  were  all  in  excellent  spirits  on  the 
road  home,  and  sang  O Lady  Fair  ! Mr.  AVopsle  taking  the  bass,  and  asserting 
with  a tremendously  strong  voice  (in  reply  to  the  inquisitive  bore  who  leads  that 
piece  of  music  in  a most  impertinent  manner,  by  wanting  to  know  all  about  every- 
body’s private  affairs)  that  he  was  the  man  with  his  white  locks  flowing,  and  that 
he  was  upon  the  whole  the  weakest  pilgrim  going. 

Finally,  I remember  that  when  I got  into  my  little  bedroom,  I was  truly 
wretched,  and  had  a strong  conviction  on  me  that  I should  never  like  Joe’s  trade. 
I had  liked  it  once,  but  once  was  not  now. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

It  is  a most  miserable  thing  to  feel  ashamed  of  home.  There  may  be  black 
ingratitude  in  the  thing,  and  the  punishment  may  be  retributive  and  well  deserved  ; 
but,  that  it  is  a miserable  thing,  I can  testify. 

Home  had  never  been  a very  pleasant  place  tome,  because  of  my  sister’s  temper. 
But,  Joe  had  sanctified  it,  and  I believed  in  it.  I had  believed  in  the  best  parlour 
as  a most  elegant  saloon  ; I had  believed  in  the  front  door,  as  a mysterious  portal  ot 
the  Temple  of  State  whose  solemn  opening  was  attended  with  a sacrifice  of  roast 
fowls  ; I had  believed  in  the  kitchen  as  a chaste  though  not  magnificent  apart- 
ment ; I had  believed  in  the  forge  as  the  glowing  road  to  manhood  and  indepen- 
dence. Within  a single  year  all  this  was  changed.  Now,  it  was  all  coarse  and 
common,  and  I would  not  have  had  Miss  Havisham  and  Estella  see  it  on  any 
account. 

How  much  of  my  ungracious  condition  of  mind  may  have  been  my  own  fault, 
how  much  Miss  Havisham’s,  how  much  my  sister’s,  is  now  of  no  moment  to  me 
or  to  any  one.  The  change  was  made  in  me  ; the  thing  was  done.  Well  or  ill 
lone,  excusably  or  inexcusably,  it  was  done. 

Once,  it  had  seemed  to  me  that  when  I should  at  last  roll  up  irfy  shirt-sleeves 
and  go  into  the  forge,  Joe’s  ’prentice,  I should  be  distinguished  and  happy.  Now 
the  reality  was  in  my  hold,  I only  felt  that  I was  dusty  with  the  dust  of  the  small 
coal,  and  that  I had  a weight  upon  my  daily  remembrance  to  which  the  anvil  was 
a feather.  1 here  have  been  occasions  in  my  later  life  (I  suppose  as  in  most  lives) 
when  I have  felt  for  a time  as  if  a thick  curtain  had  fallen  on  all  its  interest  and 
romance,  to  shut  me  out  from  anything  save  dull  endurance  any  more.  Nevei 
has  that  curtain  dropped  so  heavy  and  blank,  as  when  my  way  in  life  lay  stretched 
out  straight  before  me  through  the  newly-entered  road  of  apprenticeship  10  Joe 


236 


Great  Expectations. 


I remember  that  at  a later  period  of  my  “time,”  I used  to  stand  about  the 
churchyard  on  Sunday  evenings,  when  night  was  falling,  comparing  my  own  per- 
spective with  the  windy  marsh  view,  and  making  out  some  likeness  between  them 
by  thinking  how  flat  and  low  both  were,  and  how  on  both  there  came  an  unknown 
way  and  a dark  mist  and  then  the  sea.  I was  quite  as  dejected  on  the  first  working- 
day  of  my  apprenticeship  as  in  that  after-time  ; but  I am  glad  to  know  that  I never 
breathed  a murmur  to  Joe  while  my  indentures  lasted.  It  is  about  the  only  thing 
I am  glad  to  know  of  myself  in  that  connection. 

For,  though  it  includes  what  I proceed  to  add,  all  the  merit  of  what  I proceed 
to  add  was  Joe’s.  It  was  not  because  I was  faithful,  but  because  Joe  was  faithful, 
that  I never  ran  away  and  went  for  a soldier  or  a sailor.  It  was  not  because  I ha'd 
a strong  sense  of  the  virtue  of  industry,  but  because  Joe  had  a strong  sense  of  the 
virtue  of  industry,  that  I worked  with  tolerable  zeal  against  the  grain.  It  is  not 
possible  to  know  how  far  the  influence  of  any  amiable  honest-hearted  duty-doing 
man  flies  out  into  the  woild  ; but  it  is  very  possible  to  know  how  it  has  touched 
one’s  self  in  going  by,  and  I know  right  well  that  any  good  that  intermixed  itself 
with  my  apprenticeship  came  of  plain  contented  Joe,  and  not  of  restless  aspiring 
discontented  me. 

What  I wanted,  who  can  say  ? How  can  I say,  when  I never  knew  ? What  I 
dreaded  was,  that  in  some  unlucky  hour  I,  being  at  my  grimiest  and  commonest, 
should  lift  up  my  eyes  and  see  Estella  looking  in  at  one  of  the  wooden  windows 
of  the  forge.  I was  haunted  by  the  fear  that  she  would,  sooner  or  later,  find  me 
out,  with  a black  face  and  hands,  doing  the  coarsest  part  of  my  work,  and  would 
exult  over  me  and  despise  me.  Often  after  dark,  when  I was  pulling  the  bellows 
for  Joe,  and  we  were  singing  Old  Clem,  and  when  the  thought  how  we  used  to  sing 
it  at  Miss  Havisham’s  would  seem  to  show  me  Estella’s  face  in  the  fire,  with  her 
pretty  hair  fluttering  in  the  wind  and  her  eyes  scorning  me, — often  at  such  a time  I 
would  look  towards  those  panels  of  black  night  in  the  wall  which  the  wooden 
windows  then  were,  and  would  fancy  that  I saw  her  just  drawing  her  face  away, 
and  would  believe  that  she  had  come  at  last. 

After  that,  when  we  went  in  to  supper,  the  place  and  the  meal  would  have  a 
more  homely  look  than  ever,  and  I would  feel  more  ashamed  of  home  than  ever, 
in  my  own  ungracious  breast. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

As  I was  getting  too  big  for  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt’s  room,  my  education 
under  that  preposterous  female  terminated.  Not,  however,  until  Biddy  had 
imparted  to  me  everything  she  knew,  from  the  little  catalogue  of  prices,  to  a comic 
song  she  had  once  bought  for  a halfpenny.  Although  the  only  coherent  part  of 
the  latter  piece  of  literature  were  the  opening  lines, 

When  I went  to  Lunnon  town  sirs. 

Too  rul  loo  rul 
Too  rul  loo  rul 

Wasn’t  I done  very  brown  sirs  ? 

Too  rul  loo  rul 
Too  rul  loo  rul 

— still,  in  my  desire  to  be  wiser,  I got  this  composition  by  heart  with  the  utmost 
gravity ; nor  do  I recollect  that  I questioned  its  merit,  except  that  I thought  (as  1 
still  do)  the  amount  of  Too  rul  somewhat  in  excess  of  the  poetry.  In  my  hungci 


Joe  makes  a point . 


287 


for  information,  I made  proposals  to  Mr.  Wopsle  tc  bestow  some  intellectual 
crumbs  upon  me  ; with  which  he  kindly  complied.  As  it  turned  out,  however, 
that  he  only  wanted  me  for  a dramatic  lay-figure,  to  be  contradicted  and  embraced 
and  wept  over  and  bullied  and  clutched  and  stabbed  and  knocked  about  in  a variety 
of  ways,  I soon  declined  that  course  of  instruction  ; though  not  until  Mr.  Wopsle 
in  his  poetic  fury  had  severely  mauled  me. 

Whatever  I acquired,  I tried  to  impart  to  Joe.  This  statement  sounds  so  well, 
that  I cannot  in  my  conscience  let  it  pass  unexplained.  I wanted  to  make  Joe 
less  ignorant  and  common,  that  he  might  be  worthier  of  my  society  and  less  open 
to  Estella’s  reproach. 

The  old  Battery  out  on  the  marshes  was  our  place  of  study,  and  a broken  slate 
and  a short  piece  of  slate  pencil  were  our  educational  implements  : to  which  Joe 
always  added  a pipe  of  tobacco.  I never  knew  Joe  to  remember  anything  from 
one  Sunday  to  another,  or  to  acquire,  under  my  tuition,  any  piece  of  information 
whatever.  Yet  he  would  smoke  his  pipe  at  the  Battery  with  a far  more  sagacious 
air  than  anywhere  else — even  with  a learned  air — as  if  he  considered  himself  to  be 
advancing  immensely.  Dear  fellow,  I hope  he  did. 

It  was  pleasant  and  quiet,  out  there  with  the  sails  on  the  river  passing  beyond  the 
earthwork,  and  sometimes,  when  the  tide  was  low,  looking  as  if  they  belonged  to 
sunken  ships  that  were  still  sailing  on  at  the  bottom  of  the  water.  Whenever  I 
watched  the  vessels  standing  out  to  sea  with  their  white  sails  spread,  I somehow 
thought  of  Miss  Havisham  and  Estella  ; and  whenever  the  light  struck  aslant, 
afar  off,  upon  a cloud  or  sail  or  green  hill-side  or  water-line,  it  was  just  the  same. 
— Miss  Havisham  and  Estella  and  the  strange  house  and  the  strange  life  appeared 
to  have  something  to  do  with  everything  that  was  picturesque. 

One  Sunday  when  Joe,  greatly  enjoying  his  pipe,  had  so  plumed  himself  on 
being  “ most  awful  dull,”  that  I had  given  him  up  for  the  day,  I lay  on  the  earth- 
work for  some  time  with  my  chin  on  my  hand,  descrying  traces  of  Miss  Havisham 
and  Estella  all  over  the  prospect,  in  the  sky  and  in  the  water,  until  at  last  I resolved 
to  mention  a thought  concerning  them  that  had  been  much  in  my  head. 

“Joe,”  said  I ; “ don’t  you  think  I ought  to  pay  Miss  Havisham  a visit  ?” 

“ Well,  Pip,”  returned  Joe,  slowly  considering.  “ What  for  ?” 

“ What  for,  Joe  ? What  is  any  visit  made  for  ?” 

“There  is  some  wisits  p’r’aps,”  said  Joe,  “as  for  ever  remains  open  to  the 
question,  Pip.  But  in  regard  of  wisiting  Miss  Havisham.  She  might  think  you 
wanted  something — expected  something  of  her.” 

“ Don’t  you  think  I might  say  that  I did  not,  Joe  ?” 

“ You  might,  old  chap,”  said  Joe.  “ And  she  might  credit  it.  Similarly,  she 
mightn’t.” 

Joe  felt,  as  I did,  that  he  had  made  a point  there,  and  he  pulled  hard  at  his 
pipe  to  keep  himself  from  weakening  it  by  repetition. 

“You  see,  Pip,”  Joe  pursued,  as  soon  as  he  was  past  that  danger,  “ Miss 
Havisham  done  the  handsome  thing  by  you.  When  Miss  Havisham  done  the 
handsome  thing  by  you,  she  called  me  back  to  say  to  me  as  that  were  all.” 

“Yes,  Joe.  I heard  her.” 

“All,”  Joe  repeated,  very  emphatically. 

“Yes,  Joe.  I tell  you,  I heard  her.” 

“ Which  I meantersay,  Pip,  it  might  be  that  her  meaning  were — Make  a 
end  on  it ! — As  you  was  ! — Me  to  the  North,  and  you  to  the  South  ! — Keep  in 
sunders ! ” 

I had  thought  of  that  too,  and  it  was  very  far  from  comforting  to  me  tff  find 
that  he  had  thought  of  it ; for  it  seemed  to  render  it  more  probable. 

“ But,  Joe.” 


288 


Great  Expectations . 


“ Yes,  old  chap.” 

“ Here  am  I,  getting  on  in  the  first  year  of  my  time,  and,  since  the  day  of  my 
being  bound  I have  never  thanked  Miss  Havisham,  or  asked  after  her,  or  shown 
that  I remember  her.” 

“ That’s  true,  Pip  ; and  unless  you  was  to  turn  her  out  a set  of  shoes  all  four 
round — and  which  I meantersay  as  even  a set  of  shoes  all  four  round  might  not 
act  acceptable  as  a present  in  a total  wacancy  of  hoofs ” 

“ I don’t  mean  that  sort  of  remembrance,  Joe  ; I don’t  mean  a present.” 

But  Joe  had  got  the  idea  of  a present  in  his  head  and  must  harp  upon  it.  “ Or 
even,”  said  he,  “ if  you  was  helped  to  knocking  her  up  a new  chain  for  the  front 
door — or  say  a gross  or  two  of  shark- headed  screws  for  general  use — or  some  light 
fancy  article,  such  as  a toasting-fork  when  she  took  her  muffins — or  a gridiron 
when  she  took  a sprat  or  such  like ” 

“ I don’t  mean  any  present  at  all,  Joe,”  I interposed. 

‘ ‘ Well,”  said  Joe,  still  harping  on  it  as  though  I had  particularly  pressed  it, 
“ if  I was  yourself,  Pip,  I wouldn’t.  No,  I would  not . For  what’s  a door-chain 
when  she’s  got  one  always  up  ? And  shark-headers  is  open  to  misrepresentations. 
And  if  it  was  a toasting-fork,  you’d  go  into  brass  and  do  yourself  no  credit.  And 
the  oncommonest  workman  can’t  show  himself  oncommon  in  a gridiron — for  a 
gridiron  is  a gridiron,”  said  Joe,  steadfastly  impressing  it  upon  me,  as  if  he  were 
endeavouring  to  rouse  me  from  a fixed  delusion,  “ and  you  may  haim  at  what  you 
like,  but  a gridiron  it  will  come  out,  either  by  your  leave  or  again  your  leave,  and 
you  can’t  help  yourself ” 

“ My  dear  Joe,”  I cried  in  desperation,  taking  hold  of  his  coat,  “ don’t  go  on  in 
that  way.  I never  thought  of  making  Miss  Havisham  any  present.” 

“No,  Pip,”  Joe  assented,  as  if  he  had  been  contending  for  that  all  along; 
“ and  what  I say  to  you  is,  you  are  right,  Pip.” 

“ Yes,  Joe ; but  what  I wanted  to  say,  was,  that  as  we  are  rather  slack  just  now, 
if  you  would  give  me  a half-holiday  to-morrow,  I think  I would  go  up -town  and 
make  a call  on  Miss  Est — Havisham.” 

“Which  her  name,”  said  Joe,  gravely,  “ain’t  Estavisham,  Pip,  unless  she  have 
been  rechris’ened.” 

“ I know,  Joe,  I know.  It  was  a slip  of  mine.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Joe  ?” 

In  brief,  Joe  thought  that  if  I thought  well  of  it,  he  thought  well  of  it.  But, 
be  was  particular  in  stipulating  that  if  I were  not  received  with  cordiality,  or  if  I 
were  not  encouraged  to  repeat  my  visit  as  a visit  which  had  no  ulterior  object,  but 
was  simply  one  of  gratitude  for  a favour  received,  then  this  experimental  trip 
should  have  no  successor.  By  these  conditions  I promised  to  abide. 

Now,  Joe  kept  a journeyman  at  weekly  wages  whose  name  was  Orlick.  He 
pretended  that  his  Christian  name  was  Dolge — a clear  impossibility — but  he  was  a 
fellow  of  that  obstinate  disposition  that  I believe  him  to  have  been  the  prey  of  no 
delusion  in  this  particular,  but  wilfully  to  have  imposed  that  name  upon  the 
village  as  an  affront  to  its  understanding.  He  was  a broad-shouldered  loose- 
limbed  swarthy  fellow  of  great  strength,  never  in  a hurry,  and  always  slouching. 
He  never  even  seemed  to  come  to  his  work  on  purpose,  but  would  slouch  in  as  if 
by  mere  accident ; and  when  he  went  to  the  Jolly  Bargemen  to  eat  his  dinner,  or 
went  away  at  night,  he  would  slouch  out,  like  Cain  or  the  Wandering  Jew,  as  if 
he  had  no  idea  where  he  was  going,  and  no  intention  of  ever  coming  back.  He 
lodged  at  a sluice-keeper’s  out  on  the  marshes,  and  on  working  days  would  come 
slouching  from  his  hermitage,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  dinner  loosely 
tied  in  a bundle  round  his  neck  and  dangling  on  his  back.  On  Sundays  he  mostly 
lay  all  day  on  sluice-gates,  or  stood  against  ricks  and  barns.  He  always  slouched, 
locomotively,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground ; and,  when  accosted  or  otherwis* 


Old  Or  lick  and  Mrs.  Joe. 


289 


required  to  raise  them,  he  looked  up  in  a half  resentful,  half  puzzled  way,  as 
though  the  only  thought  he  ever  had,  was,  that  it  was  rather  an  odd  and  injurious 
fact  that  he  should  never  be  thinking. 

This  morose  journey  man  had  no  liking  for  me.  When  I was  veiy  small  and 
timid,  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  the  Devil  lived  in  a black  corner  of  the 
forge,  and  that  he  knew  the  fiend  very  well : also  that  it  was  necessary  to  makeup 
the  fire,  once  in  seven  years,  with  a live  boy,  and  that  I might  consider  mysell 
fuel.  When  I became  Joe’s  ’prentice,  Orlick  was  perhaps  confirmed  in  some 
suspicion  that  I should  displace  him  ; howbeit,  he  liked  me  still  less.  Not  that 
he  ever  said  anything,  or  did  anything,  openly  importing  hostility  ; I only  noticed 
that  he  always  beat  his  sparks  in  my  direction,  and  that  whenever  I sang  Old 
Clem,  he  came  in  out  of  time. 

Dolge  Orlick  was  at  work  and  present,  next  day,  when  I reminded  Joe  of  my 
half-holiday.  He  said  nothing  at  the  moment,  for  he  and  Joe  had  just  got  a piece 
of  hot  iron  between  them,  and  I was  at  the  bellows ; but  by-and-by  he  said* 
leaning  on  his  hammer  : 

“Now,  master  ! Sure  you’re  not  a going  to  favour  only  one  of  us.  If  Young 
Pip  has  a half-holiday,  do  as  much  for  Old  Orlick.”  I suppose  he  was  about 
five-and -twenty,  but  he  usually  spoke  of  himself  as  an  ancient  person. 

“ Why,  what’ll  you  do  with  a half-holiday,  if  you  get  it  ? ” said  Joe. 

“What’ll /do  with  it?  What’ll  he  do  with  it  ? I’ll  do  as  much  with  it  as 
him”  said  Orlick, 

“ As  to  Pip,  he’s  going  up-town,”  said  Joe, 

“ Well  then,  as  to  Old  Orlick,  he's  a going  up-town,”  retorted  that  worthy. 
“Two  can  go  up-town.  Tain’t  only  one  wot  can  go  up-town.” 

“ Don’t  lose  yo-ir  temper,”  said  Joe. 

“Shall  if  I like,”  growled  Orlick.  “Some  and  their  up  downing  ! Now, 
master  ! Come.  No  favouring  in  this  shop.  Be  a man  ! ” 

The  master  refusing  to  entertain  the  subject  until  the  journeyman  was  in  a 
better  temper,  Orlick  plunged  at  the  furnace,  drew  out  a red-hot  bar,  made  at  me 
with  it  as  if  he  were  going  to  run  it  through  my  body,  whisked  it  round  my  heady 
laid  it  on  the  anvil,  hammered  it  out — as  if  it  were  I,  I thought,  and  the  sparks 
were  my  spirting  blood — and  finally  said,  when  he  had  hammered  himself  hot  and 
the  iron  cold,  and  he  again  leaned  on  his  hammer  : 

“Now,  master !” 

“Are  you  all  right  now  ?”  demanded  Joe. 

“ Ah  ! I am  all  right,”  said  gruff  Old  Orlick. 

“ Then,  as  in  general  you  stick  to  your  work  as  well  as  most  men,”  said  Joe, 
“ let  it  be  a half-holiday  for  all.” 

My  sister  had  been  standing  silent  in  the  yard,  within  hearing — she  was  a 
most  unscrupulous  spy  and  listener — and  she  instantly  looked  in  at  one  of  the 
windows. 

“ Like  you,  you  fool ! ” said  she  to  Joe,  “ giving  holidays  to  great  idle  hulkers 
like  that.  You  are  a rich  man,  upon  my  life,  to  waste  wages  in  that  way.  I wish 
/ was  his  master  ! ” 

“You’d  be  everybody's  master  if  you  durst,”  retorted  Orlick,  with  an  ill- 
favoured  grin. 

(“  Let  her  alone,”  said  Joe.) 

“ I’d  be  a match  for  all  noodles  and  all  rogues,”  returned  my  sister,  beginning 
to  work  herself  into  a mighty  rage.  “ And  I couldn’t  be  a match  for  the  noodles, 
without  being  a match  for  your  master,  who’s  the  dunder-headed  king  of  the  noodles. 
And  I couldn’t  be  a match  for  the  rogues,  without  being  a match  for  you,  who 
aie  the  blackest-looking  and  the  worst  rogue  between  this  and  France.  Now  ’ ” 

u 


2 JO 


Great  Expectations . 


“ You’re  a foul  shrew,  Mother  Gargery,”  growled  the  journeyman.  “If  that 
makes  a judge  of  rogues,  you  ought  to  be  a good’un.” 

(“  Let  her  alone,  will  you  ?”  said  Joe.) 

“ What  did  you  say  ?”  cried  my  sister,  beginning  to  scream.  “What  did  you 
say  ? What  did  that  fellow  Orli  k say  to  me,  Pip  ? What  did  he  call  me,  with 
my  husband  standing  by?  O!  O!  O!”  Each  of  these  exclamations  was  a 
shriek ; and  I must  remark  of  my  sister,  what  is  equally  true  of  all  the  violent 
women  I have  ever  seen,  that  passion  was  no  excuse  for  her,  because  it  is  undeni- 
able that  instead  of  lapsing  into  passion,  she  consciously  and  deliberately  took 
extraordinary  pains  to  force  herself  into  it,  and  became  blindly  furious  by  regular 
stages  ; “ what  was  the  name  that  he  gave  me  before  the  base  man  who  swore  to 
defend  me?  O!  Hold  me  ! O !” 

“ Ah-h-h  !”  growled  the  journeyman,  between  his  teeth,  “ I’d  hold  you,  if  you 
was  my  wife.  I’d  hold  you  under  the  pump,  and  choke  it  out  of  you.” 

(“  I tell  you,  let  her  alone,”  said  Joe.) 

“ Oh  ! To  hear  him  ! ” cried  my  sister,  with  a clap  of  her  hands  and  a scream 
together — which  was  her  next  stage.  “ To  hear  the  names  he’s  giving  me  ! That 
Orlick  ! In  my  own  house  ! Me,  a married  woman  ! With  my  tiusband  standing 
by  ! O ! O ! ” Here  my  sister,  after  a fit  of  clappings  and  screamings,  beat  her 
hands  upon  her  bosom  and  upon  her  knees,  and  threw  her  cap  off,  and  pulled  her 
hair  down — which  were  the  last  stages  on  her  road  to  frenzy.  Being  by  this  time 
a perfect  Fury  and  a complete  success,  she  made  a dash  at  the  door,  which  I had 
fortunately  locked. 

What  could  the  wretched  Joe  do  now,  after  his  disregarded  parenthetical  in- 
terruptions, but  stand  up  to  his  journeyman,  and  ask  him  what  he  meant  by 
interfering  betwixt  himself  and  Mrs.  Joe  ; and  further  whether  he  was  man  enough 
to  come  on  ? Old  Orlick  felt  that  the  situation  admitted  of  nothing  less  than 
coming  on,  and  was  on  his  defence  straightway ; so,  without  so  much  as  pulling 
off  their  singed  and  burnt  aprons,  they  went  at  one  another,  like  two  giants. 
But,  if  any  man  in  that  neighbourhood  could  stand  up  long  against  Joe,  I never 
sr/w  the  man.  Orlick,  as  if  he  had  been  of  no  more  account  than  the  pale  young 
gentleman,  was  very  soon  among  the  coal-dust,  and  in  no  hurry  to  come  out  of  it. 
Then,  Joe  unlocked  the  door  and  picked  up  my  sister,  who  had  dropped  insensible 
at  the  window  (but  who  had  seen  the  fight  first  I think),  and  who  was  carried  into 
the  house  and  laid  down,  and  who  was  recommended  to  revive,  and  would  do 
nothing  but  struggle  and  clench  her  hands  in  Joe’s  hair.  Then  came  that  singular 
calm  and  silence  which  succeed  all  uproars ; and  then  with  the  vague  sensation 
which  I have  always  connected  with  such  a lull — namely,  that  it  was  Sunday,  and 
somebody  was  dead — I went  up-stairs  to  dress  myself. 

When  I came  down  again,  I found  Joe  and  Orlick  sweeping  up,  without  any 
other  traces  of  discomposure  than  a slit  in  one  of  Orlick’s  nostrils,  which  was 
neither  expressive  nor  ornamental.  A pot  of  beer  had  appeared  irom  the  Jolly 
Bargemen,  and  they  were  sharing  it  by  turns  in  a peaceable  manner.  The  lull 
had  a sedative  and  philosophical  influence  on  Joe,  who  followed  me  out  into  the 
road  to  say,  as  a parting  obseivation  that  might  do  me  good,  “ On  the  Rampage, 
Pip,  and  off  the  Rampage,  Pip  ; — such  is  Life  ! ” 

With  what  absurd  emotions  (for,  we  think  the  feelings  that  are  very  serious  in 
a man  quite  comical  in  a boy)  I found  myself  again  going  to  Miss  Havisham’s, 
matters  little  here.  Nor,  how  I passed  and  repassed  the  gate  many  times  before  I 
could  make  up  my  mind  to  ring.  Nor,  how  I debated  whether  I should  go  away 
without  ringing  ; nor,  how  I should  undoubtedly  have  gone,  if  my  time  had  been 
my  own,  to  come  back. 

Miss  Sarah  Pocket  came  to  the  gate.  No  Lslelki 


An  Intellectual  Evening. 


29  ! 


“ How,  then  ? You  here  again  ?”  said  Miss  Pocket.  “ What  do  you  want  ?’ 

When  I said  that  I only  came  to  see  how  Miss  Havisham  was,  Sarah  evidently 
deliberated  whether  or  no  she  should  send  me  about  my  business.  But,  unwilling 
to  hazard  the  responsibility,  she  let  me  in,  and  presently  brought  the  sharp 
message  that  I was  to  “ come  up.  ” 

Everything  was  unchanged,  and  Miss  Havhham  was  alone.  “Well!”  said 
she,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  me.  “ I hope  you  want  nothing  ? You’ll  get  nothing.” 

“ No  indeed,  Miss  Havisham.  I only  wanted  you  to  know  that  I am  doing 
very  well  in  my  apprenticeship,  and  am  always  much  obliged  to  you.” 

“ There,  there  ! ” with  the  old  restless  fingers.  “ Come  now  and  then  ; come 
on  your  birthday. — Ay ! ” she  cried  suddenly,  turning  herself  and  her  chair  towards 
me,  “ You  are  looking  round  for  Estella  ? Hey  ? ” 

I had  been  looking  round — in  fact,  for  Estella — and  I stammered  that  I hoped 
she  was  well. 

“Abroad,”  said  Miss  Havisham;  “educating  for  a lady;  far  out  of  reach; 
prettier  than  ever ; admired  by  all  who  see  her.  Do  you  feel  that  you  have  lost 
her?” 

There  was  such  a malignant  enjoyment  in  her  utterance  of  the  last  words,  and 
she  broke  into  such  a disagreeable  laugh,  that  I was  at  a loss  what  to  say.  She 
spared  me  the  trouble  of  considering,  by  dismissing  me.  When  the  gate  was 
closed  upon  me  by  Sarah  of  the  walnut-shell  countenance,  I felt  more  than  ever 
dissatisfied  with  my  home  and  with  my  trade  and  with  everything ; and  that  was 
all  I took  by  that  motion. 

As  I was  loitering  along  the  High-street,  looking  in  disconsolately  at  the  shop 
windows,  and  thinking  what  I would  buy  if  I were  a gentleman,  who  should  come 
out  of  the  bookshop  but  Mr.  Wopsle.  Mr.  Wopsle  had  in  his  hand  the  affecting 
tragedy  of  George  Barnwell,  in  which  he  had  that  moment  invested  sixpence, 
with  the  view  of  heaping  every  word  of  it  on  the  head  of  Pumblechook,  with  whom 
he  was  going  to  drink  tea.  No  sooner  did  he  see  me,  than  he  appeared  to  consider 
that  a special  Providence  had  put  a ’prentice  in  his  way  to  be  read  at ; and  he 
laid  hold  of  me,  and  insisted  on  my  accompanying  him  to  the  Pumblechookian 
parlour.  As  I knew  it  would  be  miserable  at  home,  and  as  the  nights  were  dark 
and  the  way  was  dreary,  and  almost  any  companionship  on  the  road  was  better  than 
none,  I made  no  great  resistance ; consequently,  we  turned  into  Pumblechook’s 
just  as  the  street  and  the  shops  were  lighting  up. 

As  I never  assisted  at  any  other  representation  of  George  Barnwell,  I don’t 
know  how  long  it  may  usually  take  ; but  I know  very  well  that  it  took  until 
half-past  nine  o’clock  that  night,  and  that  when  Mr.  Wopsle  got  into  Newgate, 
I thought  he  never  would  go  to  the  scaffold,  he  became  so  much  slower  than  at 
any  former  period  of  his  disgraceful  career.  I thought  it  a little  too  much  that  he 
should  complain  of  being  cut  short  in  his  flower  after  all,  as  if  he  hal  not  been 
running  to  seed,  leaf  after  leaf,  ever  since  his  course  began.  This,  he  wever,  was 
a mere  question  of  length  and  wearisomeness.  What  stung  me,  was  the  identifi- 
cation of  the  whole  affair  with  my  unoffending  self.  When  Barnwell  began  to 
go  wrong,  I declare  I felt  positively  apologetic,  Pumblechook’s  indignant  stare  so 
taxed  me  with  it.  Wopsle,  too,  took  pains  to  present  me  in  the  worst  light.  At 
once  ferocious  and  maudlin,  I was  made  to  murder  my  uncle  with  no  extenuating 
circumstances  whatever  ; Millwood  put  me  down  in  argument,  on  every  occasion; 
it  became  sheer  monomania  in  my  master’s  daughter  to  care  a button  for  me ; and 
all  I can  say  for  my  gasping  and  procrastinating  conduct  on  the  fatal  morning,  is, 
that  it  was  worthy  of  the  general  feebleness  of  my  character.  Even  after  I was 
happily  hanged  and  Wopsle  had  closed  the  book,  Pumblechook  sat  staring  at  me, 
and  shaking  his  head,  and  saying,  “ Take  warning,  boy,  take  warning  !”  as  if  i4 


Great  Expectations . 


29? 

were  a well-known  fact  that  I contemplated  murdering  a near  relation,  provided  I 
could  only  induce  one  to  have  the  weakness  to  become  my  benefactor. 

It  was  a very  dark  night  when  it  was  all  over,  and  when  I set  out  with  Mr, 
Wopsle  on  the  walk  home.  Beyond  town,  we  found  a heavy  mist  out,  and  it 
fell  wet  and  thick.  The  turnpike  lamp  was  a blur,  quite  out  of  the  lamp’s  usual 
place  apparently,  and  its  rays  looked  solid  substance  on  the  fog.  We  were  notic- 
ing this,  and  saying  how  that  the  mist  rose  with  a change  of  wind  from  a certain 
quarter  of  our  marshes,  when  we  came  upon  a man,  slouching  under  the  lee  oi 
the  turnpike  house. 

“ Halloa  ! ” we  said,  stopping.  “ Orlick  there  ? ” 

“Ah!  ” he  answered,  slouching  out.  “ I was  standing  by,  a minute,  on  the 
Hiance  of  company.” 

“You  are  late,”  I remarked. 

Orlick  not  unnaturally  answered,  “Well  ? And  you’re  late.” 

“We  have  been,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  exalted  with  his  late  performance,  “we 
have  been  indulging,  Mr.  Orlick,  in  an  intellectual  evening.” 

Old  Orlick  growled,  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  say  about  that,  and  we  all  went  on 
together.  I asked  him  presently  whether  he  had  been  spending  his  half-holiday 
up  and  down  town  ? 

“Yes,”  said  he,  “all  of  it.  I come  in  behind  yourself.  I didn’t  see  you,  but 
I must  have  been  pretty  close  behind  you.  By-the-  bye,  the  guns  is  going  again.” 

“ At  the  Hulks  ? ” said  I. 

“ Ay ! There’s  some  of  the  birds  flown  from  the  cages.  The  guns  have  been 
going  since  dark,  about.  You’ll  hear  one  presently.” 

In  effect,  we  had  not  walked  many  yards  further,  when  the  well-remembered 
boom  came  towards  us,  deadened  by  the  mist,  and  heavily  rolled  away  along  the 
low  grounds  by  the  river,  as  if  it  were  pursuing  and  threatening  the  fugitives. 

“ A good  night  for  cutting  off  in,”  said  Orlick.  “ We’d  be  puzzled  how  to 
bring  down  a jail-bird  on  the  wing,  to-night.” 

The  subject  was  a suggestive  one  to  me,  and  I thought  about  it  in  silence. 
Mr.  Wopsle,  as  the  ill-requited  uncle  of  the  evening’s  tragedy,  fell  to  meditating 
aloud  in  his  garden  at  Camberwell.  Orlick,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
slouched  heavily  at  my  side.  It  was  very  dark,  very  wet,  very  muddy,  and  so 
we  splashed  along.  Now  and  then,  the  sound  of  the  signal  cannon  broke  upon 
us  again,  and  again  rolled  sulkily  along  the  course  of  the  river.  I kept  myself 
to  myself  and  my  thoughts.  Mr.  Wopsle  died  amiably  at  Camberwell,  and 
exceedingly  game  on  Bosworth  Field,  and  in  the  greatest  agonies  at  Glastonbury. 
Orlick  sometimes,  growled,  “ Beat  it  out,  beat  it  out — old  Clem  ! With  a clink  for 
the  stout — old  Clem  ! ” I thought  he  had  been  drinking,  but  he  was  not  drunk. 

Thus,  we  came  to  the  village.  The  way  by  which  we  approached  it,  took  us 
past  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen,  which  we  were  surprised  to  find — it  being 
eleven  o’clock — in  a state  of  commotion,  with  the  door  wide  open,  and  unwonted 
lights  that  had  been  hastily  caught  up  and  put  down,  scattered  about.  Mr. 
Wopsle  dropped  in  to  ask  what  was  the  matter  (surmising  that  a convict  had 
been  taken),  but  came  running  out  in  a great  hurry. 

“There’s  something  wrong,”  said  he,  without  stopping,  “up  at  your  place, 
Pip.  Run  all ! ” 

“ What  is  it  ? ” I asked,  keeping  up  with  him.  So  did  Orlick,  at  my  side. 

“I  can’t  quite  understand.  The  house  seems  to  have  been  violently  entered 
when  Joe  Gargery  was  out.  Supposed  by  convicts.  Somebody  has  been  attacked 
and  hurt.” 

We  were  running  too  fast  to  admit  of  more  being  said,  and  we  made  no  stop 
until  we  got  into  our  kitchen.  It  was  full  of  people;  the  whole  village  was 


Murderous  attack  on  Mrs.  Joe . 


293 


there,  or  in  the  yard  ; and  there  was  a surgeon,  and  there  was  Joe,  and  there  was 
a group  of  women,  all  on  the  floor  in  the  midst  of  the  kitchen.  The  unemployed 
bystanders  drew  back  when  they  saw  me,  and  so  I became  aware  of  my  sister — 
lying  without  sense  or  movement  on  the  bare  boards  where  she  had  been  knocked 
down  by  a tremendous  blow  on  the  back  of  the  head,  dealt  by  some  unknown 
hand  when  her  face  was  turned  towards  the  fire — destined  never  to  be  on  the 
Rampage  again,  while  she  was  the  wife  of  Joe. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

\V  ith  my  head  full  of  George  Barnwell,  I was  at  first  disposed  to  believe  that  J 
must  have  had  some  hand  in  the  attack  upon  my  sister,  or  at  all  events  that  aa 
her  near  relation,  popularly  known  to  be  under  obligations  to  her,  I was  a more 
legitimate  object  of  suspicion  than  any  one  else.  But  when,  in  the  clearer 
light  of  next  morning,  I began  to  reconsider  the  matter  and  to  hear  it  dis- 
cussed around  me  on  all  sides,  I took  another  view  of  the  case,  which  was  more 
reasonable. 

Joe  had  been  at  the  three  Jolly  Bargemen,  smoking  his  pipe,  from  a quarter 
after  eight  o’clock  to  a quarter  before  ten.  While  he  was  there,  my  sister  had 
been  seen  standing  at  the  kitchen  door  and  had  exchanged  Good  Night  with  a 
farm-labourer  going  home.  The  man  could  not  be  more  particular  as  to  the  time 
at  which  he  saw  her  (he  got  into  dense  confusion  when  he  tried  to  be)  than  that  it 
must  have  been  before  nine.  When  Joe  went  home  at  five  minutes  before  ten, 
he  found  her  struck  down  on  the  floor,  and  promptly  called  in  assistance.  The 
fire  had  not  then  burnt  unusually  low,  nor  was  the  snuff  of  the  candle  very  long ; 
the  candle,  however,  had  been  blown  out. 

Nothing  had  been  taken  away  from  any  part  of  the  house.  Neither,  beyond 
the  blowing  out  of  the  candle — which  stood  on  a table  between  the  door  and  my 
sister,  and  was  behind  her  when  she  stood  facing  the  fire  and  was  struck — was 
there  any  disarrangement  of  the  kitchen,  excepting  such  as  she  herself  had  made, 
in  falling  and  bleeding.  But,  there  was  one  remarkable  piece  of  evidence  on 
the  spot.  She  had  been  struck  with  something  blunt  and  heavy,  on  the  head 
and  spine ; after  the  blows  were  dealt,  something  heavy  had  been  thrown  down 
at  her  with  considerable  violence,  as  she  lay  on  her  face.  And  on  the  ground 
beside  her,  when  Joe  picked  her  up,  was  a convict’s  leg-iron  which  had  been 
filed  asunder. 

Now,  Joe,  examining  this  iron  with  a smith’s  eye,  declared  it  to  have  been 
filed  asunder  some  time  ago.  The  hue  and  cry  going  off  to  the  Hulks,  and 
people  coming  thence  to  examine  the  iron,  Joe’s  opinion  was  corroborated. 
They  did  not  undertake  to  say  when  it  had  left  the  prison-ships  to  which  it  un- 
doubtedly had  once  belonged  ; but  they  claimed  to  know  for  certain  that  that 
particular  manacle  had  not  been  worn  by  either  of  two  convicts  who  had  escaped 
last  night.  Further,  one  of  those  two  was  already  re-taken,  and  had  not  freed 
himself  of  his  iron. 

Knowing  what  I knew,  I set  up  an  inference  of  my  own  here.  I believed  the 
iron  to  be  my  convict’s  iron — the  iron  I had  seen  and  heard  him  filing  at,  on 
the  marshes — but  my  mind  did  not  accuse  him  of  having  put  it  to  its  latest  use. 
For,  I believed  one  of  two  other  persons  to  have  become  possessed  of  it,  and 
to  have  turned  it  to  this  cruel  account.  Either  Orlick,  or  the  strange  mav  who 
had  shown  me  the  file. 


294 


Great  Expectations . 


Now,  as  to  Orlick ; lie  had  gone  to  town  exactly  as  he  told  us  when  we  picked 
him  up  at  the  turnpike,  he  had  been  seen  about  town  all  the  evening,  he  had 
been  in  divers  companies  in  several  public-houses,  and  he  had  come  back  with 
myself  and  Mr.  Wopsle.  There  was  nothing  against  him,  save  the  quarrel;  and 
my  sister  had  quarrelled  with  him,  and  with  everybody  else  about  her,  ten  thousand 
times.  As  to  the  strange  man ; if  he  had  come  back  for  his  two  bank-notes 
there  could  have  been  no  dispute  about  them,  because  my  sister  was  fully  pre- 
pared to  restore  them.  Besides,  there  had  been  no  altercation  ; the  assailant  had 
come  in  so  silently  and  suddenly,  that  she  had  been  felled  before  she  could  look  round. 

It  was  horrible  to  think  that  I had  provided  the  weapon,  however  unde- 
signedly,  but  I could  hardly  think  otherwise.  I suffered  unspeakable  trouble 
while  I considered  and  reconsidered  whether  I should  at  last  dissolve  that  spell  of 
my  childhood  and  tell  Joe  all  the  story.  For  months  afterwards,  I every  day 
settled  the  question  finally  in  the  negative,  and  reopened  and  reargued  it  next 
morning.  The  contention  came,  after  all,  to  this  ; — the  secret  was  such  an  old 
one  now,  had  so  grown  into  me  and  become  a part  of  myself,  that  I could  not  tear 
it  away.  In  addition  to  the  dread  that,  ha\ing  led  up  to  so  much  mischief,  it 
would  be  now  more  likely  than  ever  to  alienate  Joe  from  me  if  he  believed  it,  I 
had  a further  restraining  dread  that  he  would  not  believe  it,  but  would  assert  it 
with  the  fabulous  dogs  and  veal-cutlets  as  a monstrous  invention.  However,  I 
temporized  with  myself,  of  course — for,  was  I not  wavering  between  right  and 
wrong,  when  the  thing  is  always  done  ? — and  resolved  to  make  a full  disclosure  if 
I should  see  any  such  new  occasion  as  a new  chance  of  helping  in  the  discovery  of 
the  assailant. 

The  Constables,  and  the  Bow  Street  men  from  London — for,  this  happened  in  the 
days  of  the  extinct  red-waistcoated  police — were  about  the  house  for  a week  or  two, 
and  did  pretty  much  what  I have  heard  and  read  of  like  authorities  doing  in  other 
such  cases.  They  took  up  several  obviously  wrong  people,  and  they  ran  their  heads 
very  hard  against  wrong  ideas,  and  persisted  in  trying  to  fit  the  circumstances  to 
the  ideas,  instead  of  trying  to  extract  ideas  from  the  circumstances.  Also,  they 
stood  about  the  door  of  the  Jolly  Bargemen,  with  knowing  and  reserved  looks 
that  filled  the  whole  neighbourhood  with  admiration  ; and  they  had  a mysterious 
manner  of  taking  their  drink,  that  was  almost  as  good  as  taking  the  culprit.  But 
not  quite,  for  they  never  did  it. 

Long  after  these  constitutional  powers  had  dispersed,  my  sister  lay  very  ill  in 
bed.  Her  sight  was  disturbed,  so  that  she  saw  objects  multiplied,  and  grasped 
at  visionary  teacups  and  wine-glasses  instead  of  the  realities  ; her  hearing  was 
greatly  impaired  ; her  memory  also  ; and  her  speech  was  unintelligible.  When, 
at  last,  she  came  round  so  far  as  to  be  helped  down-stairs,  it  was  still  necessary 
to  keep  my  slate  always  by  her,  that  she  might  indicate  in  writing  what  she  could 
not  indicate  in  speech.  As  she  was  (very  bad  handwriting  apart)  a more  than 
indifferent  speller,  and  as  Joe  was  a more  than  indifferent  reader,  extraordinary 
complications  arose  between  them,  which  I was  always  called  in  to  solve.  The 
administration  of  mutton  instead  of  medicine,  the  substitution  of  Tea  for  Joe, 
and  the  baker  for  bacon,  were  among  the  mildest  of  my  own  mistakes. 

However,  her  temper  was  greatly  improved,  and  she  was  patient.  A tremulous 
uncertainty  of  the  action  of  all  her  limbs  soon  became  a part  of  her  regular  state, 
and  afterwards,  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  months,  she  would  often  put  hei 
hands  to  her  head,  and  would  then  remain  for  about  a week  at  a time  in  some 
gloomy  aoerration  of  mind.  We  Avere  at  a loss  to  find  a suitable  attendant  foi 
ner,  until  a circumstance  happened  conveniently  to  relieve  us.  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great- 
aunt  conquered  a confirmed  habit  of  living  into  which  she  had  fallen,  and  Bidd$ 
became  a part  of  our  establishment. 


Mrs.  Joe  s diseased  condition. 


295 


It  may  have  been  about  a month  after  my  sister’s  reappearance  in  tile  kitchen, 
when  Biddy  came  to  us  with  a small  speckled  box  containing  the  whole  of  her 
worldly  effects,  and  became  a blessing  to  the  household.  Above  all  she  was  a 
blessing  to  Joe,  for  the  dear  old  fellow  was  sadly  cut  up  by  the  constant  contem- 
plation of  the  wreck  of  his  wife,  and  had  been  accustomed,  while  attending  on 
ner  of  an  evening,  to  turn  to  me  every  now  and  then  and  say,  with  his  blue  eyes 
moistened,  “Such  a fine  figure  of  a woman  as  she  once  were,  Pip  ! ” Biddy  in- 
stantly taking  the  cleverest  charge  of  her  as  though  she  had  studied  her  from 
infancy,  Joe  became  able  in  some  sort  to  appreciate  the  greater  quiet  of  his  life, 
and  to  get  down  to  the  Jolly  Bargemen  now  and  then  for  a change  that  did  him 
good.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  police  people  that  they  had  all  more  or  less 
suspected  poor  Joe  (though  he  never  knew  it),  and  that  they  had  to  a man  con- 
curred in  regarding  him  as  one  of  the  deepest  spirits  they  had  ever  encountered. 

Biddy’s  first  triumph  in  her  new  office,  was  to  solve  a difficulty  that  had  com-  • 
pletely  vanquished  me.  I had  tried  hard  at  it,  but  had  made  nothing  of  it.  Thus 
it  was : 

Again  and  again  and  again,  my  sister  had  traced  upon  the  slate,  a character 
that  looked  like  a curious  T,  and  then  with  the  utmost  eagerness  had  called  our 
attention  to  it  as  something  she  particularly  wanted.  I had  in  vain  tried  every- 
thing producible  that  began  with  a T,  from  tar  to  toast  and  tub.  At  length  it  had 
come  into  my  head  that  the  sign  looked  like  a hammer,  and  on  my  lustily  calling 
that  word  in  my  sister’s  ear,  she  had  begun  to  hammer  on  the  table  and  had  ex- 
pressed a qualified  assent.  Thereupon,  I had  brought  in  all  our  hammers,  one 
after  another,  but  without  avail.  Then  I bethought  me  of  a crutch,  the  shape 
being  much  the  same,  and  I borrowed  one  in  the  village,  and  displayed  it  to  my 
»ister  with  considerable  confidence.  But  she  shook  her  head  to  that  extent  when 
she  was  shown  it,  that  we  were  terrified  lest  in  her  weak  and  shattered  state  she 
should  dislocate  her  neck. 

When  my  sister  found  that  Biddy  was  very  quick  to  understand  her,  this  mys- 
terious sign  reappeared  on  the  slate.  Biddy  looked  thoughtfully  at  it,  heard  my 
explanation,  looked  thoughtfully  at  my  sister,  looked  thoughtfully  at  Joe  (who 
was  always  represented  on  the  slate  by  his  initial  letter),  and  ran  into  the  forge, 
followed  by  Joe  and  me. 

“ Why,  of  course ! ” cried  Biddy,  with  an  exultant  face.  “Don’t  you  see? 
It’s  him!" 

Orlick,  without  a doubt ! She  had  lost  his  name,  and  could  only  signify  him  by 
his  hammer.  We  told  him  why  we  wanted  him  to  come  into  the  kitchen,  and  he 
slowly  laid  down  his  hammer,  wiped  his  brow  with  his  arm,  took  another  wipe  at 
it  with  his  apron,  and  came  slouching  out,  with  a curious  loose  vagabond  bend  in 
the  knees  that  strongly  distinguished  him. 

I confess  that  I expected  to  see  my  sister  denounce  him,  and  that  I was  disap- 
pointed by  the  different  result.  She  manifested  the  greatest  anxiety  to  be  on  good 
terms  with  him,  was  evidently  much  pleased  by  his  being  at  length  produced,  and 
motioned  that  she  would  have  him  given  something  to  drink.  She  watched  his 
countenance  as  if  she  were  particularly  wishful  to  be  assured  that  he  took  kindly 
to  his  reception,  she  showed  every  possible  desire  to  conciliate  him,  and  there  was 
an  air  of  humble  propitiation  in  all  she  did,  such  as  I have  seen  pervade  the 
bearing  of  a child  towards  a hard  master.  After  that  day,  a day  rarely  passed 
without  her  drawing  the  hammer  on  her  slate,  and  without  Orlick’s  slouching  in 
and  standing  doggedly  before  her,  as  if  he  knew  no  more  than  I did  what  to  mak^ 
of  it. 


Great  Exp  a tat  ions. 


296 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

I NOW  fell  into  a regular  routine  of  apprenticeship  life,  which  was  varied,  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  village  and  the  marshes,  by  no  more  remarkable  circumstance 
than  the  arrival  of  my  birthday  and  my  paying  another  visit  to  Miss  Havisham.  I 
found  Miss  Sarah  Pocket  still  on  duty  at  the  gate,  I found  Miss  Havisham  just  as 
I had  left  her,  and  she  spoke  of  Estella  in  the  very  same  way,  if  not  in  the  very 
same  words.  The  interview  lasted  but  a few  minutes,  and  she  gave  me  a guinea 
when  I was  going,  and  told  me  to  come  again  on  my  next  birthday.  I may  men- 
tion at  once  that  this  became  an  annual  custom.  I tried  to  decline  taking  the 
guinea  on  the  first  occasion,  but  with  no  better  effect  than  causing  her  to  ask  me 
very  angrily,  if  I expected  more  ? Then,  and  after  that,  I took  it. 

So  unchanging  was  the  dull  old  house,  the  yellow  light  in  the  darkened  room, 
the  faded  spectre  in  the  chair  by  the  dressing-table  glass,  that  I felt  as  if  the  stop- 
ping of  the  clocks  had  stopped  Time  in  that  mysterious  place,  and,  while  I and 
everything  else  outside  it  grew  older,  it  stood  still.  Daylight  never  entered  the 
house,  as  to  my  thoughts  and  remembrances  of  it,  any  more  than  as  to  the  actual 
fact.  It  bewildered  me,  and  under  its  influence  I continued  at  heart  to  hate  my 
trade  and  to  be  ashamed  of  home. 

Imperceptibly  I became  conscious  of  a change  in  Biddy,  however.  Her  shoes 
came  up  at  the  heel,  her  hair  grew  bright  and  neat,  her  hands  were  always  clean. 
She  was  not  beautiful — she  was  common,  and  could  not  be  like  Estella — but  she 
was  pleasant  and  wholesome  and  sweet-tempered.  She  had  not  been  with  us 
more  than  a year  (I  remember  her  being  newly  out  of  mourning  at  the  time  it 
struck  me),  when  I observed  to  myself  one  evening  that  she  had  curiously  thought- 
ful and  attentive  eyes  ; eyes  that  were  very  pretty  and  veiy  good. 

It  came  of  my  lifting  up  my  own  eyes  from  a task  I was  poring  at — writing 
some  passages  from  a book,  to  improve  myself  in  two  ways  at  once  by  a sort  of 
stratagem — and  seeing  Biddy  observant  of  what  I was  about,,  I laid  down  my 
pen,  and  Biddy  stopped  in  her  needlework  without  laying  it  down. 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  “how  do  you  manage  it  ? Either  I am  very  stupid,  or  you 
are  very  clever.” 

“What  is  it  that  I manage  ? I don’t  know,”  returned  Biddy,  smiling. 

She  managed  her  whole  domestic  life,  and  wonderfully  too  ; but  I did  not 
mean  that,  though  that  made  what  I did  mean,  more  surprising. 

“ How  do  you  manage,  Biddy,”  said  I,  “ to  learn  everything  that  I learn,  and 
always  to  keep  up  with  me  ?”  I was  beginning  to  be  rather  vain  of  my  knowledge, 
for  I spent  my  birthday  guineas  on  it,  and  set  aside  the  greater  part  of  my  pocket- 
money  for  similar  investment ; though  I have  no  doubt,  now,  that  the  little  I 
knew  was  extremely  dear  at  the  price. 

“ I might  as  well  ask  you,”  said  Biddy,  “ how  you  manage  ?” 

“No;  because  when  I come  in  from  the  forge  of  a night,  any  one  can  see  me 
turning  to  at  it.  But  you  never  turn  to  at  it,  Biddy.” 

“ I suppose  I must  catch  it — like  a cough,”  said  Biddy,  quietly ; and  went  or. 
with  her  sewing. 

Pursuing  my  idea  as  I leaned  back  in  my  wooden  chair  and  looked  at  Biddy 
sewing  away  with  her  head  on  one  side,  I began  to  think  her  rather  an  extraor- 
dinary girl.  For,  I called  to  mind  now,  that  she  was  equally  accomplished  in  the 
terms  of  our  trade,  and  the  names  of  our  different  sorts  of  work,  and  our  various 
tools.  In  short,  whatever  I knew,  Biddy  knew.  Theoretically,  she  was  already  as 
good  a blacksmith  as  I,  or  better. 


A change  in  Biddy, 


21)7 


u You  are  one  of  those,  Biddy,”  said  I,  “ who  make  the  most  of  every  chance. 
You  never  had  a chance  before  you  came  here,  and  see  how  improved  you  are !” 
Biddy  looked  at  me  for  an  instant,  and  went  on  with  her  sewing.  “ I was  your 
first  teacher  though  ; wasn’t  I ?”  said  she,  as  she  sewed. 

“ Biddy  !”  I exclaimed,  in  amazement.  “ Why,  you  are  crying  !” 

“ No  I am  not,”  said  Biddy,  looking  up  and  laughing.  “What  put  that  in 
your  head?” 

What  could  have  put  it  in  my  head,  but  the  glistening  of  a tear  as  it  dropped 
on  her  work  ? I sat  silent,  recalling  what  a drudge  she  had  been  until  Mr. 
Wopsle’s  great-aunt  successfully  overcame  that  bad  habit  of  living,  so  highly 
desirable  to  be  got  rid  of  by  some  people.  I recalled  the  hopeless  circumstances 
by  which  she  had  been  surrounded  in  the  miserable  little  shop  and  the  miser- 
able little  noisy  evening  school,  with  that  miserable  old  bundle  of  incompetence 
always  to  be  dragged  and  shouldered.  I reflected  that  even  in  those  untoward 
times  there  must  have  been  latent  in  Biddy  what  was  now  developing,  for,  in  my 
first  uneasiness  and  discontent  I had  turned  to  her  for  help,  as  a matter  of  course. 
Biddy  sat  quietly  sewing,  shedding  no  more  tears,  and  while  I looked  at  her  and 
thought  about  it  all,  it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  I had  not  been  sufficiently 
grateful  to  Biddy.  I might  have  been  too  reserved,  and  should  have  patronised 
her  more  (though  I did  not  use  that  precise  word  in  my  meditations),  with  my 
confidence. 

“Yes,  Biddy,”  I observed,  when  I had  done  turning  it  over,  “you  were  my 
first  teacher,  and  that  at  a time  when  we  little  thought  of  ever  being  together 
like  this,  in  this  kitchen.” 

“ Ah,  poor  thing  !”  replied  Biddy.  It  was  like  her  self-forgetfulness,  to  trans- 
fer the  remark  to  my  sister,  and  to  get  up  and  be  busy  about  her,  making  her 
more  comfortable  : “ that’s  sadly  true  !” 

“ Well,”  said  I,  “ we  must  talk  together  a little  more,  as  we  used  to  do.  And 
I must  consult  you  a little  more,  as  I used  to  do.  Let  us  have  a quiet  walk  on 
the  marshes  next  Sunday,  Biddy,  and  a long  chat.” 

My  sister  was  never  left  alone  now ; but  Joe  more  than  readily  undertook  the 
care  of  her  on  that  Sunday  afternoon,  and  Biddy  and  I went  out  together.  It  wa? 
summer-time  and  lovely  weather.  When  we  had  passed  the  village  and  the 
church  and  the  churchyard,  and  were  out  on  the  marshes,  and  began  to  see  the 
sails  of  the  ships  as  they  sailed  on,  I began  to  combine  Miss  Havisham  and 
Estella  with  the  prospect,  in  my  usual  way.  When  we  came  to  the  river-side  and 
sat  down  on  the  bank,  with  the  water  rippling  at  our  feet,  making  it  all  more 
quiet  than  it  would  have  been  without  that  sound,  I resolved  that  it  was  a good 
time  and  place  for  the  admission  of  Biddy  into  my  inner  confidence. 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  after  binding  her  to  secrecv,  “ I want  to  be  a gentleman.” 
“Oh,  I wouldn’t,  if  I was  you!”  she  returned.  “I  don’t  think  it  would 
answer.” 

“Biddy,”  said  I,  with  some  severity,  “ I have  particular  reasons  for  wanting  to 
be  a gentleman.” 

“You  know  best,  Pip  ; but  don’t  you  think  you  are  happier  as  you  are  ?” 

“ Biddy,”  I exclaimed,  impatiently,  “ I am  not  at  all  happy  as  I am.  I am 
disgusted  with  my  calling  and  with  my  life.  I have  never  taken  to  either  since 
I was  bound.  Don’t  be  absurd.” 

“Was  I absurd  ?”  said  Biddy,  quietly  raising  her  eyebrows  ; “I  am  sorry  fo3 
that ; I didn’t  mean  to  be.  I only  want  you  to  do  well,  and  be  comfortable.” 

“ Well,  then,  understand  once  for  all  that  I never  shall  or  can  be  comfort 
able- — or  anything  but  miserable — there,  Biddy! — unless  I can  lead  a very  different 
sort  of  life  from  the  life  I lead  now.” 


Great  Expectations . 


298 

“ That’s  a pity  !”  said  Biddy,  shaking  her  head  with  a sorrowful  air. 

Now,  I too  had  so  often  thought  it  a pity,  that,  in  the  singular  kind  of  quarrel 
with  myself  which  I was  always  carrying  on,  I was  half  inclined  to  shed  tears  of 
vexation  and  distress  when  Biddy  gave  utterance  to  her  sentiment  and  my  own.  I 
told  her  she  was  right,  and  I knew  it  was  much  to  be  regretted,  but  still  it  was  not 
to  be  helped. 

“ If  I could  have  settled  down,”  I said  to  Biddy,  plucking  up  the  short  grass 
within  reach,  much  as  I had  once  upon  a time  pulled  my  feelings  out  of  my  hair 
and  kicked  them  into  the  brewery  well : “ if  I could  have  settled  down  and  been 
but  half  as  fond  of  the  forge  as  I was  when  I was  little,  I know  it  would  have 
been  much  better  for  me.  You  and  I and  Joe  would  have  wanted  nothing  then, 
and  Joe  and  I would  perhaps  have  gone  partners  when  I was  out  of  my  time, 
and  I might  even  have  grown  up  to  keep  company  with  you,  and  we  might 
have  sat  on  this  very  bank  on  a fine  Sunday,  quite  different  people.  I should 
have  been  good  enough  for  you  ; shouldn’t  I,  Biddy  ?” 

Biddy  sighed  as  she  looked  at  the  ships  sailing  on,  and  returned  for  answer, 
“ Yes  ; I am  not  over-particular.”  It  scarcely  sounded  flattering,  but  I knew  she 
meant  well. 

“Instead  of  that,”  said  I,  plucking  up  more  grass  and  chewing  a blade  or  two, 
“see  how  I am  going  on.  Dissatisfied,  and  uncomfortable,  and — what  would  it 
signify  to  me,  being  coarse  and  common,  if  nobody  had  told  me  so  !” 

Biddy  turned  her  face  suddenly  towards  mine,  and  looked  far  more  attentively 
at  me  than  she  had  looked  at  the  sailing  ships. 

“It  was  neither  a very  true  nor  a very  polite  thing  to  say,”  she  remarked, 
directing  her  eyes  to  the  ships  again.  “ Who  said  it  ?” 

I was  disconcerted,  for  I had  broken  away  without  quite  seeing  where  I was 
going  to.  It  was  not  to  be  shuffled  off,  now,  however,  and  I answered,  “ The 
beautiful  young  lady  at  Miss  Havisham’s,  and  she’s  more  beautiful  than  anybody 
ever  was,  and  I admire  her  dreadfully,  and  I want  to  be  a gentleman  on  her 
account.”  Having  made  this  lunatic  confession,  I began  to  throw  my  torn-up 
grass  into  the  river,  as  if  I had  some  thoughts  of  following  it. 

“ Do  you  want  to  be  a gentleman,  to  spite  her  or  to  gain  her  over?”  Biddy 
quietly  asked  me,  after  a pause. 

“I  don’t  know,”  I moodily  answered. 

“ Because,  if  it  is  to  spite  her,”  Biddy  pursued,  “ I should  think — but  you  know 
best — that  might  be  better  and  more  independently  done  by  caring  nothing  for  her 
words.  And  if  it  is  to  gain  her  over,  I should  think — but  you  know  best — she 
was  not  worth  gaining  over.” 

Exactly  what  I myself  had  thought,  many  times.  Exactly  what  was  perfectly 
manifest  to  me  at  the  moment.  But  how  could  I,  a poor  dazed  village  lad,  avoid 
that  wonderful  inconsistency  into  which  the  best  and  wisest  of  men  fall  every 
day  ? 

“ It  may  be  all  quite  true,”  said  I to  Biddy,  “ but  I admire  her  dreadfully.” 

In  short,  I turned  over  on  my  face  when  I came  to  that,  and  got  a good  grasp 
on  the  hair,  on  each  side  of  my  head,  and  wrenched  it  well.  All  the  while  know- 
ing the  madness  of  my  heart  to  be  so  very  mad  and  misplaced,  that  I was  quite 
conscious  it  would  have  served  my  face  right,  if  I had  lifted  it  up  by  my  hair, 
and  knocked  it  against  the  pebbles  as  a punishment  for  belonging  to  such  an 
idiot. 

Biddy  was  the  wisest  of  girls,  and  she  tried  to  reason  no  more  with  me.  She 
pnt  her  hand,  which  was  a comfortable  hand  though  roughened  by  work,  upon  my 
h^nds,  one  after  another,  and  gently  took  them  out  of  my  hair  Then  she  softly 
patted  my  shoulder  in  a soothing  way,  while  with  my  face  upon  my  sleeve  I cried 


I confide  in  Biddy . 


299 


B little — exactly  as  I bad  done  in  the  brewery  yard — and  felt  vaguely  convinced 
that  I was  very  much  ill  used  by  somebody  or  by  everybody  ; I can’t  s*y  which. 

“ I am  glad  of  one  thing,”  said  Biddy,  “ and  that  is,  that  you  have  felt  you 
could  give  me  your  confidence,  Pip.  And  I am  glad  of  another  thing,  and  that 
is,  that  of  course  you  know  you  may  depend  upon  my  keeping  it  and  always  so 
far  deserving  it.  If  your  first  teacher  (dear  ! such  a poor  one,  and  so  much  in 
need  of  being  taught  herself!)  had  been  your  teacher  at  the  present  time,  she 
thinks  she  knows  what  lesson  she  would  set.  But  it  would  be  a hard  one  to  learn, 
and  you  have  got  beyond  her,  and  it’s  of  no  use  now.”  So,  with  a quiet  sigh 
for  me,  Biddy  rose  from  the  bank,  and  said,  with  a fresh  and  pleasant  change  of 
voice,  “ Shall  we  walk  a little  further,  or  go  home  ?” 

“Biddy,”  I cried,  getting  up,  putting  my  arm  around  her  neck,  and  giving  hei 
a kiss,  “ I shall  always  tell  you  everything.” 

“Till  you’re  a gentleman,”  said  Biddy. 

“ You  know  I never  shall  be,  so  that’s  always.  Not  that  I have  any  occasion 
to  tell  you  anything,  for  you  know  everything  I know — as  I told  you  at  home 
the  other  night.” 

“ Ah  !”  said  Biddy,  quite  in  a whisper,  as  she  looked  away  at  the  ships.  And 
then  repeated,  with  her  former  pleasant  change  ; “ shall  we  walk  a little  further, 
or  go  home  ?” 

I said  to  Biddy  we  would  walk  a little  further,  and  we  did  so,  and  the  summer 
afternoon  toned  down  into  the  summer  evening,  and  it  was  very  beautiful.  I began 
to  consider  whether  I was  not  more  naturally  and  wholesomely  situated,  after  all, 
in  these  circumstances,  than  playing  beggar  my  neighbour  by  candlelight  in  the 
room  with  the  stopped  clocks,  and  being  despised  by  Estella.  I thought  it  would 
be  very  good  for  me  if  I could  get  her  out  of  my  head  with  all  the  rest  of  those 
remembrances  and  fancies,  and  could  go  to  work  determined  to  relish  what  I had 
to  do,  and  stick  to  it,  and  make  the  best  of  it.  I asked  myself  the  question  whether 
I did  not  surely  know  that  if  Estella  wrere  beside  me  at  that  moment  instead  of 
Biddy,  she  would  make  me  miserable  ? I was  obliged  to  admit  that  I did  know 
it  for  a certainty,  and  I said  to  myself,  “ Pip,  what  a fool  you  are  !” 

We  talked  a good  deal  as  we  walked,  and  all  that  Biddy  said  seemed  right. 
Biddy  was  never  insulting,  or  capricious,  or  Biddy  to-day  and  somebody  else  to- 
morrow ; she  would  have  derived  only  pain,  and  no  pleasure,  from  giving  me 
pain  ; she  would  far  rather  have  wounded  her  own  breast  than  mine.  How  could 
it  be,  then,  that  I did  not  like  her  much  the  better  of  the  two  ? 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  when  we  were  walking  homeward,  “ I wish  you  could  put 
me  right.” 

“ I wish  I could  !”  said  Biddy. 

“ If  I could  only  get  myself  to  fall  in  love  with  you — you  don’t  mind  my  speak- 
ing so  openly  to  such  an  old  acquaintance  ?” 

“ Oh  dear,  not  at  all !”  said  Biddy.  “ Don’t  mind  me.” 

“ If  I could  only  get  myself  to  do  it,  that  would  be  the  thing  for  me.” 

“But  you  never  will,  you  see,”  said  Biddy. 

It  did  not  appear  quite  so  unlikely  to  me  that  evening,  as  it  would  have  done  if 
we  had  discussed  it  a fewr  hours  before.  I therefore -observed  I was  not  quite  sure 
of  that.  But  Biddy  said  she  was , and  she  said  it  decisively.  In  my  heart  I 
believed  her  to  be  right ; and  yet  I took  it  rather  ill,  too,  that  she  should  be  so 
positive  on  the  point. 

When  we  came  near  the  churchyard,  we  had  to  cross  an  embankment,  and  get 
over  a stile  near  a sluice  gate.  There  started  up,  from  the  rate,  or  fiom  th* 
rushes,  or  from  the  ooze  (which  was  quite  in  his  stagnant  way),  Old  OrlicK. 

“ Halloa  !”  he  growled,  “ where  are  you  two  going  ?” 


*5  DC 


Great  Expectations. 


“ Where  should  we  be  going,  but  home  ?” 

“Well,  then,”  said  he,  “ I’m  jiggered  if  I don’t  see  you  home!” 

This  penalty  of  being  jiggered  was  a favourite  supposititious  case  of  his.  He 
attached  no  definite  meaning  to  the  word  that  I am  aware  of,  but  used  it,  like  liis 
own  pretended  Christian  name,  to  affront  mankind,  and  convey  an  idea  of  some- 
thing savagely  damaging.  When  I was  younger,  I had  had  a general  belief  that 
if  he  had  jiggered  me  personally,  he  would  have  done  it  with  a sharp  and  twisted 
hook. 

Biddy  was  much  against  his  going  with  us,  and  said  to  me  in  a whisper,  “ Don’t 
let  him  come  ; I don’t  like  him.”  As  I did  not  like  him  either,  I took  the  liberty 
of  saying  that  we  thanked  him,  but  we  didn’t  want  seeing  home.  He  received 
that  piece  of  information  with  a yell  of  laughter,  and  dropped  back,  but  came 
slouching  after  us  at  a little  distance. 

Curious  to  know  whether  Biddy  suspected  him  of  having  had  a hand  in  that 
murderous  attack  of  which  my  sister  had  never  been  able  to  give  any  account,  I 
asked  her  why  she  did  not  like  him. 

“ Oh  ! ” she  replied,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  as  he  slouched  after  us, 
“because  I — I am  afraid  lie  likes  me.” 

“ Did  he  ever  tell  you  he  liked  you  ? ” I asked,  indignantly. 

“No,”  said  Biddy,  glancing  over  her  shoulder  again,  “he  never  told  me  so; 
but  he  dances  at  me,  whenever  he  can  catch  my  eye.” 

However  novel  and  peculiar  this  testimony  of  attachment,  I did  not  doubt  the 
accuracy  of  the  interpretation.  I was  very  hot  indeed  upon  Old  Orlick’s  daring 
to  admire  her  ; as  hot  as  if  it  were  an  outrage  on  myself. 

“ But  it  makes  no  difference  to  you,  you  know,”  said  Biddy,  calmly. 

“No,  Biddv,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me  ; only  I don’t  like  it;  I don’t  approve 

©fit.” 

“ Nor  I neither,”  said  Biddy.  “ Though  that  makes  no  difference  to  you.” 

“ Exactly,”  said  I;  “but  I must  tell  you  I should  have  no  opinion  of  you,  Biddy, 
if  he  danced  at  you  with  your  own  consent.” 

I kept  an  eye  on  Orlick  after  that  night,  and  whenever  circumstances  were 
favourable  to  his  dancing  at  Biddy,  got  before  him,  to  obscure  that  demonstration. 
He  had  struck  root  in  Joe’s  establishment,  by  reason  of  my  sister’s  sudden  fancy 
for  him,  or  I should  have  tried  to  get  him  dismissed.  He  quite  understood  and 
reciprocated  my  good  intentions,  as  I had  reason  to  know  thereafter. 

And  now,  because  my  mind  was  not  confused  enough  before,  I complicated  its 
confusion  fifty  thousand-fold,  by  having  states  and  seasons  when  I was  clear  that 
Biddy  was  immeasurably  better  than  Estella,  and  that  the  plain  honest  working 
life  to  which  I was  born  had  nothing  in  it  to  be  ashamed  of,  but  offered  me 
sufficient  means  of  self-respect  and  happiness.  At  those  times,  I would  decide 
conclusively  that  my  disaffection  to  dear  old  Joe  and  the  forge,  was  gone,  and 
that  I was  growing  up  in  a fair  way  to  be  partners  with  Joe  and  to  keep  company 
with  Biddy — when  all  in  a moment  some  confounding  remembrance  of  the  Havis- 
ham  days  would  fall  upon  me,  like  a destructive  missile,  and  scatter  my  wits 
again.  Scattered  wits  take  a long  time  picking  up ; and  often,  before  I had  got 
them  well  together,  they  would  be  dispersed  in  all  directions  by  one  stray  thought, 
that  perhaps  after  all  Miss  Havisham  was  going  to  make  my  fortune  when  my 
time  was  out. 

If  my  time  had  run  out,  it  would  have  left  me  still  at  the  height  of  my  per* 
plexities,  I dare  say.  It  never  did  run  out,  however,  but  was  brought  to  a prema* 
ture  end,  as  I proceed  to  relate. 


The  strange  Gentleman . 


301 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

It  was  in  the  fourth  year  of  my  apprenticeship  to  Joe,  and  it  was  a Saturday  night 
There  was  a group  assembled  round  the  fire  at  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen, 
attentive  to  Mr.  Wopsle  as  he  read  the  newspaper  aloud.  Of  that  group  1 was 

one. 

A highly  popular  murder  had  been  committed,  and  Mr.  Wopsle  was  imbrued 
in  blood  to  the  eyebrows.  He  gloated  over  every  abhorrent  adjective  in  the  de- 
scription, and  identified  himself  with  every  witness  at  the  Inquest.  He  faintly 
moaned,  “ I am  done  for,”  as  the  victim,  and  he  barbarously  bellowed,  “ I’ll  serv<» 
you  out,”  as  the  murderer.  He  gave  the  medical  testimony,  in  pointed  imitation 
of  our  local  practitioner ; and  he  piped  and  shook,  as  the  aged  turnpike-keeper 
who  had  heard  blows,  to  an  extent  so  very  paralytic  as  to  suggest  a doubt  regard- 
ing the  mental  competency  of  that  witness.  The  coroner,  in  Mr.  Wopsle’s  hands, 
became  Timon  of  Athens ; the  beadle,  Coriolanus.  He  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly, 
and  we  all  enjoyed  ourselves,  and  were  delightfully  comfortable.  In  this  cozy  state 
of  mind  we  came  to  the  verdict  of  Wilful  Murder. 

Then,  and  not  sooner,  I became  aware  of  a strange  gentleman  leaning  over  the 
back  of  the  settle  opposite  me,  looking  on.  There  was  an  expression  of  contempt 
on  his  face,  and  he  bit  the  side  of  a great  forefinger  as  he  watched  the  group  of 
faces. 

“Well  ! ” said  the  stranger  to  Mr.  Wopsle,  when  the  reading  was  done,  “you 
have  settled  it  all  to  your  own  satisfaction,  I have  no  doubt  ? ” 

Everybody  started  and  looked  up,  as  if  it  were  the  murderer.  He  looked  at 
everybody  coldly  and  sarcastically. 

“ Guilty,  of  course  ?”  said  he.  “ Out  with  it.  Come  ! ” 

“ Sir,”  returned  Mr.  Wopsle,  “without  having  the  honour  of  your  acquaintance, 
I do  say  Guilty.”  Upon  this  we  all  took  courage  to  unite  in  a confirmatory 
murmur. 

“I  know  you  do,”  said  the  stranger;  “I  knew  you  would.  I told  you  so. 
But  now  I’ll  ask  you  a question.  Do  you  know,  or  do  you  not  know,  that  the 
law  of  England  supposes  every  man  to  be  innocent,  until  he  is  proved — proved — 
to  be  guilty  ?” 

“ Sir,”  Mr.  Wopsle  began  to  reply,  “as  an  Englishman  myself,  I ” 

“Come!”  said  the  stranger,  biting  his  forefinger  at  him.  “Don’t  evade  the 
question.  Either  you  know  it,  or  you  don’t  know  it.  Which  is  it  to  be  ? ” 

He  stood  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  himself  on  one  side,  in  a bullying 
interrogative  manner,  and  he  threw  his  forefinger  at  Mr.  Wopsle — as  it  were  to 
mark  him  out — before  biting  it  again. 

“ Now ! ” said  he.  “ Do  you  know  it,  or  don’t  you  know  it  ? ” 

“ Certainly  I know  it,”  replied  Mr.  Wopsle. 

“ Certainly  you  know  it.  Then  why  didn’t  you  say  so  at  first  ? Now,  I’ll  ask 
you  another  question  ; ” taking  possession  of  Mr.  Wopsle,  as  if  he  had  a right  to 
him.  “ Do  you  know  that  none  of  these  witnesses  have  yet  been  cross- 
examined  ? ” 

Mr.  Wopsle  was  beginning,  “ I can  only  say ” when  the  stranger  stopped 

him. 

“What?  You  won’t  answer  the  question,  yes  or  no?  Now,  I’ll  try  you 
again.”  Throwing  his  finger  at  him  again.  “ Attend  to  me.  Are  you  aware,  or 
are  you  not  aware,  that  none  of  these  witnesses  have  yet  been  cross-examine  1 t 
Come,  I only  want  one  word  from  you.  Yes,  or  no  ? ” 


302 


Great  Expectations . 


Mr.  Wopsle  hesitated,  and  we  all  began  to  conceive  rather  a poor  opinion  of  him 
“Come!  ” said  the  stranger,  “I’ll  help  you.  You  don’t  deserve  help,  but  I’ll 
help  you.  Look  at  that  paper  you  hold  in  your  hand.  What  is  it  ? ” 

“ What  is  it  ? ” repeated  Mr.  Wopsle,  eyeing  it  much  at  a loss. 

“ Is  it,”  pursued  the  stranger  in  his  most  sarcastic  and  suspicious  manner,  “the 
printed  paper  you  have  just  been  reading  from  ?” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“Undoubtedly.  Now,  turn  to  that  paper,  and  tell  me  whether  it  distinctly 
states  that  the  prisoner  expressly  said  that  his  legal  advisers  instructed  him  alto 
gether  to  reserve  his  defence  ? ” 

“ I read  that  just  now,”  Mr.  Wopsle  pleaded. 

“Never  mind  what  you  read  just  now,  sir;  I don’t  ask  you  what  you  read  just 
now.  You  may  read  the  Lord’s  Prayer  backwards,  if  you  like — and,  perhaps, 
have  done  it  before  to-day.  Turn  to  the  paper.  No,  no,  no,  my  friend  ; not  to 
the  top  of  the  column;  you  know  better  than  that ; to  the  bottom,  to  the  bottom.” 
(We  all  began  to  think  Mr.  Wopsle  full  of  subterfuge.)  “Well  ? Have  you  found  it  ?” 
“ Here  it  is,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle. 

“ Now,  follow  that  passage  with  your  eye,  and  tell  me  whether  it  distinctly  states 
that  the  prisoner  expressly  said  that  he  was  instructed  by  his  legal  advisers  wholly 
to  reserve  his  defence  ? Come  ! Do  you  make  that  of  it  ? ” 

Mr.  Wopsle  answered,  “ Those  are  not  the  exact  words.” 

“Not  the  exact  words  ! ” repeated  the  gentleman,  bitterly.  “ Is  that  the  exact 
substance  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle. 

“ Yes,”  repeated  the  stranger,  looking  round  at  the  rest  of  the  company  with  his 
light  hand  extended  towards  the  witness,  Wopsle.  “And  now  I ask  you  what  you 
say  to  the  consc  ence  of  that  man  who,  with  that  passage  before  his  eyes,  can  lay  his 
head  upon  his  pillow  after  having  pronounced  a fellow-creature  guilty,  unheard  ? ” 
We  all  began  to  suspect  that  Mr.  Wopsle  was  not  the  man  we  had  thought 
him,  and  that  he  was  beginning  to  be  found  out. 

“ And  that  same  man,  remember,”  pursued  the  gentleman,  throwing  his  finger  at 
Mr.  Wopsle  heavily ; “ that  same  man  might  be  summoned  as  a juryman  upon  this 
very  trial,  and  having  thus  deeply  committed  himself,  might  return  to  the  bosom 
of  his  family  and  lay  his  head  upon  his  pillow,  after  deliberately  swearing  that  he 
would  well  and  truly  try  the  issue  joined  between  Our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King 
and  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  would  a true  verdict  give  according  to  the  evidence, 
so  help  him  God  ! ” 

We  were  all  deeply  persuaded  that  the  unfortunate  Wopsle  had  gone  too  far, 
and  had  better  stop  in  his  reckless  career  while  there  was  yet  time. 

The  strange  gentleman,  with  an  air  of  authority  not  to  be  disputed,  and  with  a 
manner  expressive  of  knowing  something  secret  about  every  one  of  us  that  would 
effectually  do  for  each  individual  if  he  chose  to  disclose  it,  left  the  back  of  the 
settle,  and  came  into  the  space  between  the  two  settles,  in  front  of  the  fire,  where 
he  remained  standing  : his  left  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  he  biting  the  forefinger  of 
his  right. 

“ From  information  I have  received,”  said  he,  looking  round  at  us  as  we  all  quailed 
before  him,  “I  have  reason  to  believe  there  is  a blacksmith  among  you,  by  name 
Joseph — or  Joe — Gargery.  Which  is  the  man  ? ” 

“ Here  is  the  man,”  said  Joe. 

The  strange  gentleman  beckoned  him  out  of  his  place,  and  Joe  went. 

“You  have  an  apprentice,”  pursued  the  stranger,  “commonly  known  as  Pip  i 
Is  he  here  ?” 

“ 1 am  here  ! " I cried. 


Under  examination  by  Mr . Jaggers.  303 

The  stranger  did  not  recognise  me,  but  I recognised  him  as  the  gentleman  I 
had  met  on  the  stairs,  on  the  occasion  of  my  second  visit  to  Miss  Havisham.  1 
had  known  him  the  moment  I saw  him  looking  over  the  settle,  and  now  that  I 
stood  confronting  him  with  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  I checked  off  again  in 
detail,  his  large  head,  his  dark  complexion,  his  deep-set  eyes,  his  bushy  black 
eyebrows,  his  large  watch-chain,  his  strong  black  dots  of  beard  and  whisker,  and 
even  the  smell  of  scented  soap  on  his  great  hand. 

“I  wish  to  have  a private  conference  with  you  two,”  said  he,  when  he  had 
surveyed  me  at  his  leisure.  “ It  will  take  a little  time.  Perhaps  we  had  better  go 
'to  your  place  of  residence.  I prefer  not  to  anticipate  my  communication  here;  you 
will  impart  as  much  or  as  little  of  it  as  you  please  to  your  friends  afterwards  ; I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that.” 

Amidst  a wondering  silence,  we  three  walked  out  of  the  Jolly  Bargemen,  and  in 
a wondering  silence  walked  home.  While  going  along,  the  strange  gentleman 
occasionally  looked  at  me,  and  occasionally  bit  the  side  of  his  finger.  As  we 
neared  home,  Joe  vaguely  acknowledging  the  occasion  as  an  impressive  and 
ceremonious  one,  went  on  ahead  to  open  the  front  door.  Our  conference  was  held 
in  the  state  parlour,  which  was  feebly  lighted  by  one  candle. 

It  began  with  the  strange  gentleman’s  sitting  down  at  the  table,  drawing  the 
candle  to  him,  and  looking  over  some  entries  in  his  pocket-book.  He  then  put 
up  the  pocket-book  and  set  the  candle  a little  aside  : after  peering  round  it  into 
the  darkness  at  Joe  and  me,  to  ascertain  which  was  which. 

“ My  name,”  he  said,  “ is  Jaggers,  and  I am  a lawyer  in  London.  I am  pretty 
well  known.  I have  unusual  business  to  transact  with  you,  and  I commence  by 
explaining  that  it  is  not  of  my  originating.  If  my  advice  had  been  asked,  I should 
not  have  been  here.  It  was  not  asked,  and  you  see  me  here.  What  I have  to  do 
as  the  confidential  agent  of  another,  I do.  No  less,  no  more.” 

Finding  that  he  could  not  see  us  very  well  from  where  he  sat,  he  got  up,  and 
threw  one  leg  over  the  back  of  a chair  and  leaned  upon  it ; thus  having  one  foot 
on  the  seat  of  a chair,  and  one  foot  on  the  ground. 

“ Now,  Joseph  Gargery,  I am  the  bearer  of  an  offer  to  relieve  you  of  this  young 
fellow,  your  apprentice.  You  would  not  object  to  cancel  his  indentures  at  his 
request  and  for  his  good  ? You  would  want  nothing  for  so  doing  ? ” 

“Lord  forbid  that  I should  want  anything  for  not  standing  in  Pip’s  way,”  said 
Joe,  staring. 

“Lord  forbidding  is  pious,  but  not  to  the  purpose,”  returned  Mr.  Jaggers. 
“ The  question  is,  Would  you  want  anything  ? Do  you  want  anything  ?” 

“ The  answer  is,”  returned  Joe,  sternly,  “ No.” 

I thought  Mr.  Jaggers  glanced  at  Joe,  as  if  he  considered  him  a fool  for  his 
disinterestedness.  But  I was  too  much  bewildered  between  breathless  curiosity 
and  surprise,  to  be  sure  of  it. 

“ Very  well,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ Recollect  the  admission  you  have  made,  and 
don’t  try  to  go  from  it  presently.” 

“ Who’s  a-going  to  try  ?”  retorted  Joe. 

“ I don’t  say  anybody  is.  Do  you  keep  a dog  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I do  keep  a dog.” 

“ Bear  in  mind  then,  that  Brag  is  a good  dog,  but  that  Holdfast  is  a better 
Bear  that  in  mind,  will  you  ?”  repeated  Mr.  Jaggers,  shutting  his  eyes  and  nodding’ 
his  head  at  Joe,  as  if  he  were  forgiving  him  something.  “ Now,  I return  to  this 
young  fellow.  And  the  communication  I have  got  to  make  is,  that  he  has  Grea  1 
Expectations.” 

Joe  and  I gasped,  and  looked  at  one  another. 

“ I am  instructed  to  communicate  to  him,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  throwing  his 


3^4 


Great  Expectations . 


finger  at  me  sideways,  “ that  he  will  come  into  a handsome  property.  Further, 
that  it  is  the  desire  of  the  present  possessor  of  that  property,  that  he  be  imme- 
diately removed  from  his  present  sphere  of  life  and  from  this  place,  and  be  brought 
up  as  a gentleman — in  a word,  as  a young  fellow  of  great  expectations.” 

My  dream  was  out ; my  wild  fancy  was  surpassed  by  sober  reality ; Miss  Havis- 
ham  was  going  to  make  my  fortune  on  a grand  scale. 

“ Now,  Mr.  Pip,”  pursued  the  lawyer,  “ I address  the  rest  of  what  I have  to  say, 
to  you.  You  are  to  understand,  first,  that  it  is  the  request  of  the  person  from 
whom  I take  my  instructions,  that  you  always  bear  the  name  of  Pip.  You  will 
have  no  objection,  I dare  say,  to  your  great  expectations  being  encumbered  with 
that  easy  condition.  But  if  you  have  any  objection,  this  is  the  time  to  mention  it.” 
My  heart  was  beating  so  fast,  and  there  was  such  a singing  in  my  ears,  that  I 
could  scarcely  stammer  I had  no  objection. 

“ I should  think  not ! Now  you  are  to  understand,  secondly,  Mr.  Pip,  that  the 
name  of  the  person  who  is  your  liberal  benefactor  remains  a profound  secret,  until 
the  person  chooses  to  reveal  it.  I am  empowered  to  mention  that  it  is  the  intention 
of  the  person  to  reveal  it  at  first  hand  by  word  of  mouth  to  yourself.  When  or 
where  that  intention  may  be  carried  out,  I cannot  say ; no  one  can  say.  It  may 
be  years  hence.  Now,  you  are  distinctly  to  understand  that  you  are  most  positively 
prohibited  from  making  any  inquiry  on  this  head,  or  any  allusion  or  reference, 
however  distant,  to  any  individual  whomsoever  as  the  individual,  in  all  the  com- 
munications you  may  have  with  me.  If  you  have  a suspicion  in  your  own  breast, 
keep  that  suspicion  in  your  own  breast.  It  is  not  the  least  to  the  purpose  what  the 
reasons  of  this  prohibition  are  ; they  may  be  the  strongest  and  gravest  reasons,  or 
they  may  be  a mere  whim.  This  is  not  for  you  to  inquire  into.  The  condition  is  laid 
down.  Your  acceptance  of  it,  and  your  observance  of  it  as  binding,  is  the  only  remain- 
ing condition  that  I am  charged  with,  by  the  person  from  whom  I take  my  instruc- 
tions, and  for  whom  I am  not  otherwise  responsible.  That  person  is  the  person  from 
whom  you  derive  your  expectations,  and  the  secret  is  solely  held  by  that  person  and  by 
me.  Again,  not  a very  difficult  condition  with  which  to  encumber  such  a rise  in  for- 
tune; but  if  you  have  any  objection  to  it,  this  is  the  time  to  mention  it.  Speak  out.” 
Once  more,  I stammered  with  difficulty  that  I had  no  objection. 

“ I should  think  not ! Now,  Mr.  Pip,  I have  done  with  stipulations.”  Though 
he  called  me  Mr.  Pip,  and  began  rather  to  make  up  to' me,  he  still  could  not  get 
rid  of  a certain  air  of  bullying  suspicion  ; and  even  now  he  occasionally  shut  his 
eyes  and  threw  his  finger  at  me  while  he  spoke,  as  much  as  to  express  that  he 
knew  all  kinds  of  things  to  my  disparagement,  if  he  only  chose  to  mention  them. 
“ We  come  next,  to  mere  details  of  arrangement.  You  must  know  that  although 
I use  the  term  ‘ expectations  ’ more  than  once,  you  are  not  endowed  with  expecta- 
tions only.  There  is  already  lodged  in  my  hands,  a sum  of  money  amply  sufficient 
for  your  suitable  education  and  maintenance.  You  will  please  consider  me  your 
guardian.  Oh !”  for  I was  going  to  thank  him,  “I  tell  you  at  once,  I am  paid 
for  my  services,  or  I shouldn’t  render  them.  It  is  considered  that  you  must  be 
better  educated,  in  accordance  with  your  altered  position,  and  that  you  will  be 
alive  to  the  importance  and  necessity  of  at  once  entering  on  that  advantage.” 

I said  I had  always  longed  for  it. 

“Never  mind  what  you  have  always  longed  for,  Mr.  Pip,”  he  retorted,  “keep 
to  the  record.  If  you  long  for  it  now,  that’s  enough.  Am  I answered  that  you 
are  ready  to  be  placed  at  once,  under  some  proper  tutor  ? Is  that  it  ?” 

I stammered  yes,  that  was  it. 

“ Good.  Now,  your  inclinations  are  to  be  consulted.  I don’t  think  that  wise, 
mind,  but  it’s  my  trust.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  any  tutor  whom  you  would 
prefer  to  another  ?” 


The  examination  proceeds . 305 

I had  never  heard  of  any  tutor  but  Biddy,  and  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt ; so,  I 
replied  in  the  negative. 

“ There  is  a certain  tutor,  of  whom  I have  some  knowledge,  who  I think  might 
suit  the  purpose,  ” said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “I  don’t  recommend  him,  observe  ; because 
I never  recommend  anybody.  The  gentleman  I speak  of  is  one  Mr.  Matthew 
Pocket/ ’ 

Ah  ! I caught  at  the  name  directly.  Miss  Havisham’s  relation.  The  Matthew 
whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Camilla  had  spoken  of.  The  Matthew  whose  place  was  to  be  at 
Miss  Havisham’s  head,  when  she  lay  dead,  in  her  bride’s  dress  on  the  bride’s  table. 

“ You  know  the  name  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  looking  shrewdly  at  me,  and  then 
shutting  up  his  eyes  while  he  waited  for  my  answer. 

My  answer  was,  that  I had  heard  of  the  name. 

“ Oh  !”  said  he.  “ You  have  heard  of  the  name!  But  the  question  is,  what  do 
you  say  of  it  ?” 

I said,  or  tried  to  say,  that  I was  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  recommenda- 
tion— 

“No,  my  young  friend  !”  he  interrupted,  shaking  his  great  head  very  slowly. 
“ Recollect  yourself!” 

Not  recollecting  myself,  I began  again  that  I was  much  obliged  to  him  for  his 
recommendation 

“ No,  my  young  friend,”  he  interrupted,  shaking  his  head  and  frowning  and 
smiling  both  at  once  ; “ no,  no,  no  ; it’s  very  well  done,  but  it  won’t  do  ; you 
are  too  young  to  fix  me  with  it.  Recommendation  is  not  the  word,  Mr.  Pip. 
Tiy  another.” 

Correcting  myself,  I said  that  I was  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  mention  of  Mr 
Matthew  Pocket 

“ That's  more  like  it !”  cried  Mr.  Jaggers. 

— And  (I  added)  I would  gladly  try  that  gentleman. 

“ Good.  You  had  better  try  him  in  his  own  house.  The  way  shall  be  prepared 
for  you,  and  you  can  see  his  son  first,  who  is  in  London.  When  will  you  come  to 
London  ?” 

I said  (glancing  at  Joe,  who  stood  looking  on,  motionless),  that  I supposed  I 
could  come  directly. 

“ First,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ you  should  have  some  new  clothes  to  come  in,  and 
they  should  not  be  working  clothes.  Say  this  day  week.  You’ll  want  some 
money.  Shall  I leave  you  twenty  guineas  ?” 

He  produced  a long  purse,  with  the  greatest  coolness,  and  counted  them  out  on 
the  table  and  pushed  them  over  to  me.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  taken  his 
leg  from  the  chair.  He  sat  astride  of  the  chair  when  he  had  pushed  the  money 
over,  and  sat  swinging  his  purse  and  eyeing  Joe. 

“Well,  Joseph  Gargery  ? You  look  dumbfoundered  ?” 

“ I am  /”  said  Joe,  in  a very  decided  manner. 

“ It  was  understood  that  you  wanted  nothing  for  yourself,  remember  ?” 

“ It  were  understood,”  said  Joe.  “ And  it  are  understood.  And  it  ever  wiL 
be  similar  according.” 

“But  what,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  swinging  his  purse,  “what  if  it  was  in  my 
instructions  to  make  you  a present,  as  compensation  ?” 

“ As  compensation  what  for  ?”  Joe  demanded. 

“For  the  loss  of  his  services.” 

Joe  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  with  the  touch  of  a woman.  I have 
often  thought  him  since,  like  the  steam-hammer,  that  can  crush  a man  or  pat  an 
egg”s^e^»  in  his  combination  of  strength  with  gentleness.  “ Pip  is  that  hearty 
welcome,”  said  Joe,  “ to  go  free  with  his  services,  to  honour  and  fortun’,  as  ua 

x 


306 


Great  Extectatmis . 


words  can  tell  him.  But  if  you  think  as  Money  can  make  compensation  to  me 
for  the  loss  of  the  little  child — what  come  to  the  forge — and  ever  the  best  oi 
tiiends  ! — ” 

0 dear  good  Joe,  whom  I was  so  ready  to  leave  and  so  unthankful  to,  I see  you 
again,  with  your  muscular  blacksmith’s  arm  before  your  eyes,  and  your  010a U 
chest  heaving,  and  your  voice  dying  away.  O dear  good  faithful  tender  Joe,  I 
feel  the  loving  tremble  of  your  hand  upon  my  arm,  as  solemnly  this  day  as  if  it 
had  been  the  rustle  of  an  angel’s  wing ! 

But  I encouraged  Joe  at  the  time.  I was  lost  in  the  mazes  of  my  future 
fortunes,  and  could  not  retrace  the  by-paths  we  had  trodden  together.  I begged 
Joe  to  be  comforted,  for  (as  he  said)  we  had  ever  been  the  best  of  friends,  and  (as 
I said)  we  ever  would  be  so.  Joe  scooped  his  eyes  with  his  disengaged  wrist,  as 
if  he  weje  bent  on  gouging  himself,  but  said  not  another  word. 

Mr.  Jaggers  had  looked  on  at  this,  as  one  who  recognised  in  Joe  the  village 
idiot,  and  in  me  his  keeper.  When  it  was  over,  he  said,  weighing  in  his  hand  the 
purse  he  had  ceased  to  swing : 

“Now,  Joseph  Gargery,  I warn  you  this  is  your  last  chance.  No  half  measures 
with  me.  If  you  mean  to  take  a present  that  I have  it  in  charge  to  make  you, 

speak  out,  and  you  shall  have  it.  If  on  the  contrary  you  mean  to  say ” 

Here,  to  his  great  amazement,  he  was  stopped  by  Joe’s  suddenly  working  round 
him  with  every  demonstration  of  a fell  pugilistic  purpose. 

“ Which  I meantersay,”  cried  Joe,  “ that  if  you  come  into  my  place  bull-baiting 
and  badgering  me,  come  out ! Which  I meantersay  as  sech  if  you’re  a man,  como 
on  ! Which  I meantersay  that  what  I say,  I meantersay  and  stand  or  fall  by  !” 

1 drew  Joe  away,  and  he  immediately  became  placable  : merely  stating  lo  me, 
in  an  obliging  manner  and  as  a polite  expostulatory  notice  to  any  one  whom  it 
might  happen  to  concern,  that  he  were  not  a-going  to  be  bull-baited  and  badgered 
in  his  own  place.  Mr.  Jaggers  had  risen  when  Joe  demonstrated,  and  had  backed 
near  the  door.  Without  evincing  any  inclination  to  come  in  again,  he  theie 
delivered  his  valedictory  remarks.  They  were  these  : 

“ Well,  Mr.  Pip,  I think  the  sooner  you  leave  here — as  you  are  t j be  a gentle- 
man-—the  better.  Let  it  stand  for  this  day  week,  and  you  shall  recev  e my  printed 
address  in  the  meantime.  You  can  take  a hackney-coach  at  the  sta  ;e-coach  office 
in  London,  and  come  straight * d me.  Understand  that  I express  1 o opinion,  one 
way  or  other,  on  the  trust  I undertake,  I am  paid  for  undertaking  it,  and  I do 
so.  Now,  understand  that  finally.  Understand  that !” 

He  was  throwing  his  finger  at  both  of  us,  and  I think  would  have  gone  on,  but 
for  his  seeming  to  think  Joe  dangerous,  and  gc'ng  off. 

Something  came  into  my  head  which  induced  me  to  run  after  him  as  ht*  was 
going  down  to  the  Jolly  Bargemen,  where  he  had  left  a hired  carriage. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Jaggers.” 

“Halloa  !”  said  he,  facing  round,  “ what’s  the  matter  ?” 

“ I wish  to  be  quite  right,  Mr.  Jaggers,  and  to  keep  to  your  directions  ; so  I 
thought  I had  better  ask.  Would  there  be  any  objection  to  my  taking  leave  oi 
any  one  I know,  about  here,  before  I go  aw  *y  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  he,  looking  as  if  he  hardly  understood  me. 

u I don’t  mean  in  the  village  only,  but  up-town  ?” 

‘‘No,”  said  he.  “ No  objection.” 

I thanked  him  and  ran  home  again,  and  there  I found  that  Joe  had  already 
locked  the  front  door  and  vacated  the  state  parlour,  and  was  seaved  by  the  kitchen 
fire  with  a hand  on  each  knee,  gazing  intently  at  the  burning  coals.  I too  sat 
down  before  the  fire  and  gazed  at  the  coals,  and  nothing  was  said  for  a long  time. 

My  sistei  was  in  her  cushioned  chaff  in  her  corner,  and  Biddy  sat  at  her  ne 


Biddy  is  hi  formed  that  1 am  a Gentleman . 


307 


wor/L  before  the  fire,  and  Joe  sat  next  Biddy,  and  I sat  next  Joe  in  the  cornel 
opposite  my  sister.  The  more  I looked  into  the  glowing  coals,  the  more  incapable 
I became  of  looking  at  Joe  ; the  longer  the  silence  lasted,  the  more  unable  I felt 
to  speak. 

At  length  I got  out,  “Joe,  have  you  told  Biddy  ?” 

“No,  Pip,”  returned  Joe,  still  looking  at  the  fire,  and  holding  his  knees  tight, 
as  if  he  had  private  information  that  they  intended  to  make  off  somewhere,  “ which 
1 left  it  to  yourself,  Pip.” 

“ I would  rather  you  told,  Joe.” 

“ Pip ’s  a gentleman  of  fortun’  then,”  said  Joe,  “ and  God  bless  him  in  it !” 

Biddy  dropped  her  work,  and  looked  at  me.  Joe  held  his  knees  and  looked  at 
me.  I looked  at  both  of  them.  After  a pause  they  both  heartily  congratulated 
me ; but  there  was  a certain  touch  of  sadness  in  their  congratulations  that  I rather 
resented. 

I took  it  upon  myself  to  impress  Biddy  (and  through  Biddy,  Joe)  with  the  grave 
obligation  I considered  my  friends  under,  to  know  nothing  and  say  nothing  about 
the  maker  of  my  fortune.  It  would  all  come  out  in  good  time,  I observed,  and  in 
the  meanwhile  nothing  was  to  be  said,  save  that  I had  come  into  great  expecta- 
tions from  a mysterious  patron.  Biddy  nodded  her  head  thoughtfully  at  the  fire 
as  she  took  up  her  work  again,  and  said  she  would  be  very  particular;  and  Joe, 
still  detaining  his  knees,  said,  “Ay,  ay,  I’ll  be  ekervally  partickler,  Pip  and 
then  they  congratulated  me  again,  and  went  on  to  express  so  much  wonder  at  the 
notion  of  my  being  a gentleman,  that  I didn’t  half  like  it. 

Infinite  pains  were  then  taken  by  Biddy  to  convey  to  my  sister  some  idea  of 
what  had  happened.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  those  efforts  entirely  failed.  She 
laughed  aud  nodded  her  head  a great  many  times,  and  even  repeated  after  Biddy, 
the  words  “ Pip”  and  “Property.”  But  I doubt  if  they  had  more  meaning  in 
them  than  an  election  cry,  and  I cannot  suggest  a darker  picture  of  her  state  of 
rnind. 

I never  could  h£ve  believed  it  without  experience,  but  as  Joe  and  Biddy  became 
more  at  their  cheerful  ease  again,  I became  quite  gloomy.  Dissatisfied  with  my 
fortune,  of  course  I could  not  be  ; but  it  is  possible  that  I may  have  been,  without 
quite  knowing  it,  dissatisfied  with  myself. 

Anyhow,  I sat  with  my  elbow  on  my  knee  and  my  face  upon  my  hand,  looking 
into  the  fire,  as  those  two  talked  about  my  going  away,  and  about  what  they 
should  do  without  me,  and  all  that.  And  whenever  I caught  one  of  them  looking 
at  me,  though  never  so  pleasantly  (and  they  often  looked  at  me — particularly 
Biddy),  I felt  offended  : as  if  they  were  expressing  some  mistrust  of  me.  Though 
Heaven  knows  they  never  did  by  word  or  sign. 

At  those  times  I would  get  up  and  look  out  at  the  door  ; for  our  kitchen  door 
opened  at  once  upon  the  night,  and  stood  open  on  summer  evenings  to  air  the 
room.  The  very  stars  to  which  I then  raised  my  eyes,  I am  afraid  I took  to  be 
but  poor  and  humble  stars  for  glittering  on  the  rustic  objects  among  which  I had 
passed  my  life. 

“ Saturday  night,”  said  I,  when  we  sat  at  our  supper  of  bre?d-and-cheese  and 
beer.  “ Five  more  days,  and  then  the  day  before  the  day  ! They’ll  soon  go.” 

“Yes,  Pip,”  observed  Joe,  whose  voice  sounded  hollow  in  his  beer  mug. 
“ They’ll  soon  go.” 

“ Soon,  soon  go,”  said  Biddy. 

“I  have  been  thinking,  Joe,  that  when  I go  down  town  on  Monday,  and  orde? 
my  new  clothes,  I shall  tell  the  tailor  that  I’ll  come  and  put  them  on  there,  o» 
that  I’ll  have  them  sent  to  Mr.  Pumblechook’s.  It  would  be  very  disagre-eabh  to 
be  stared  at  by  all  the  people  here.” 


3°8 


Great  Expectations. 


“ ]Slr.  and  Mrs.  Hubble  might  like  to  see  you  in  your  new  gen-teel  figure  too, 
mp,”  said  Joe,  industriously  cutting  his  bread  with  his  cheese  on  it,  in  the  palm 
of  his  left  hand,  and  glancing  at  my  untasted  supper  as  if  he  thought  of  the  time 
when  we  used  to  compare  slices.  “ So  might  Wopsle.  And  the  Jolly  Bargemen 
might  take  it  as  a compliment.” 

“ That’s  just  what  I don’t  want,  Joe.  They  would  make  such  a business  of  it 
— such  a coarse  and  common  business — that  I couldn’t  bear  myself.” 

“ Ah,  that  indeed,  Pip  !”  said  Joe.  “ If  you  couldn’t  abear  yourself ” 

Biddy  asked  me  here,  as  she  sat  holding  my  sister’s  plate,  “Have  you  thought 
about  when  you'll  show  yourself  to  Mr.  Gargery,  and  you:  sister,  and  me  ? You 
♦511  show  yourself  to  us  ; won’t  you  ?” 

“ Biddy,”  I returned  with  some  resentment,  “you  are  so  exceedingly  quick  that 
u’s  difficult  to  keep  up  with  you.” 

(“  She  always  wrere  quick,”  observed  Joe.) 

“ If  you  had  waited  another  moment,  Biddy,  you  would  have  heard  me  say  that 
l shall  bring  my  clothes  here  in  a bundle  one  evening — most  likely  on  the  evening 
udore  I go  away.” 

Biddy  said  no  more.  Handsomely  forgiving  her,  I soon  exchanged  an  affec- 
tionate good-night  with  her  and  Joe,  and  went  up  to  bed.  When  I got  into  my 
little  room,  I sat  down  and  took  a long  look  at  it,  as  a mean  little  room  that  I 
should  soon  be  parted  from  and  raised  above,  for  ever.  It  was  furnished  with 
fresh  young  remembrances  too,  and  even  at  the  same  moment  I fell  into  much  the 
same  confused  division  of  mind  between  it  and  the  better  rooms  to  which  I was 
going,  as  I had  been  in  so  often  between  the  forge  and  Miss  Havisham’s,  and 
Biddy  and  Estella. 

The  sun  had  been  shining  brightly  all  day  on  the  roof  of  my  attic,  and  the  room 
was  warm.  As  I put  the  window  open  and  stood  looking  out,  I saw  Joe  come 
slowly  forth  at  the  dark  door  below,  and  take  a turn  or  two  in  the  air ; and  then 
I saw  Biddy  come,  and  bring  him  a pipe  and  light  it  for  him.  He  never  smoked  so 
late,  and  it  seemed  to  hint  to  me  that  he  wanted  comforting,  for  some  reason  or  other. 

He  presently  stood  at  the  door  immediately  beneath  me,  smoking  his  pipe,  and 
Biddy  stood  there  too,  quietly  talking  to  him,  and  I knew  that  they  talked  of  me, 
for  I heard  my  name  mentioned  in  an  endearing  tone  by  both  of  them  more  than 
once.  I would  not  have  listened  for  more,  if  I could  have  heard  more  :so,  I 
drew  away  from  the  window,  and  sat  down  in  my  one  chair  by  the  bedside,  feel- 
ing it  very  sorrowful  and  strange  that  this  first  night  of  my  bright  fortunes  should 
be  the  loneliest  I had  ever  known. 

Looking  towards  the  open  window,  I saw  light  wreaths  from  Joe’s  pipe  floating 
there,  and  I fancied  it  was  like  a blessing  from  Joe — not  obtruded  on  me  or 
paraded  before  me,  but  pervading  the  air  we  shared  together.  I put  my  light  out, 
and  crept  into  bed  ; and  it  was  an  uneasy  bed  now,  and  I never  slept  the  old  sound 
sleep  in  it  any  more. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Morning  made  a considerable  difference  in  my  general  prospect  of  Life,  and 
brightened  it  so  much  that  it  scarcely  seemed  the  same.  What  lay  heaviest  on  my 
mind,  was,  the  consideration  that  six  days  intervened  between  me  and  the  day  of 
departure ; for,  I could  not  divest  myself  of  a misgiving  that  something  might 
happen  to  London  in  the  meanwhile,  and  that,  when  I got  there,  it  might  be 
either  greatly  deteriorate  \ 01  dean  gone. 


For  London  Ho  ! 


3°9 

Joe  and  Biddy  were  very  sympathetic  and  pleasant  when  I spoke  of  our 
approaching  separation  ; but  they  only  referred  to  it  when  I did.  After  breakfast, 
Joe  brought  out  my  indentures  from  the  press  in  the  best  parlour,  and  we  put  them 
in  the  fire,  and  I felt  that  I was  free.  With  all  the  novelty  of  my  emancipation  on 
me,  I went  to  church  with  Joe,  and  thought,  perhaps  the  clergyman  wouldn’t  have 
read  that  about  the  rich  man  and  the  kingdom  of  Heaven,  if  he  had  known  all. 

After  our  early  dinner,  I strolled  out  alone,  proposing  to  finish  off  the  marshes 
at  once,  and  get  them  done  with.  As  I passed  the  church,  I felt  (as  I had  felt 
during  service  in  the  morning)  a sublime  compassion  for  the  poor  creatures  who 
were  destined  to  go  there,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  all  their  lives  through,  and  to  lie 
obscurely  at  last  among  the  low  green  mounds.  I promised  myself  that  I would 
do  something  for  them  one  of  these  days,  and  formed  a plan  in  outline  for 
bestowing  a dinner  of  roast-beef  and  plum-pudding,  a pint  of  ale,  and  a gallon  of 
condescension,  upon  everybody  in  the  village. 

If  I had  often  thought  before,  with  something  allied  to  shame,  of  my  companion- 
ship with  the  fugitive  whom  I had  once  seen  limping  among  those  graves,  what 
were  my  thoughts  on  this  Sunday,  when  the  place  recalled  the  wretch,  ragged  and 
shivering,  with  his  felon  iron  and  badge  ! My  comfort  was,  that  it  happened  a 
long  time  ago,  and  that  he  had  doubtless  been  transported  a long  way  off,  and 
that  he  was  dead  to  me,  and  might  be  veritably  dead  into  the  bargain. 

No  more  low  wet  grounds,  no  more  dykes  and  sluices,  no  more  of  these  grazing 
cattle— though  they  seemed,  in  their  dull  manner,  to  wear  a more  respectful  air 
now,  and  to  face  round,  in  order  that  they  might  stare  as  long  as  possible  at  the 
possessor  of  such  great  expectations — farewell,  monotonous  acquaintances  of  my 
childhood,  henceforth  I was  for  London  and  greatness  : not  for  smith’s  work  in 
general  and  for  you  ! I made  my  exultant  way  to  the  old  Battery,  and,  lying  down 
there  to  consider  the  question  whether  Miss  Havisham  intended  me  for  Estella, 
fell  asleep. 

When  I awoke,  I was  much  surprised  to  find  Joe  sitting  beside  me,  smoking 
his  pipe.  He  greeted  me  with  a cheerful  smile  on  my  opening  my  eyes,  and  said  i 

“ As  being  the  last  time,  Pjp,  I thought  I’d  foller.” 

“ And  Joe,  I am  very  glad  you  did  so.” 

“Thankee,  Pip.” 

“You  may  be  sure,  dear  Joe,”  I went  on,  after  we  had  shaken  hands,  “ that  I 
shall  never  forget  you.” 

“No,  no,  Pip  ! ” said  Joe,  in  a comfortable  tone,  “7’m  sure  of  that.  Ay,  ay, 
old  chap  ! Bless  you,  it  were  only  necessary  to  get  it  well  round  in  a man’s  mind, 
to  be  certain  on  it.  But  it  took  a bit  of  time  to  get  it  well  round,  the  change  come 
so  oncommon  plump  ; didn’t  it  ? ’ 

Somehow,  I was  not  best  pleased  with  Joe’s  being  so  mightily  secure  of  me.  I 
should  have  liked  him  to  have  betrayed  emotion,  or  to  have  said,  “It  does  you 
credit,  Pip,”  or  something  of  that  sort.  Therefore,  I made  no  remark  on  Joe’s  first 
head  : merely  saying  as  to  his  second,  that  the  tidings  had  indeed  come  suddenly, 
but  that  I had  always  wanted  to  be  a gentleman,  and  had  often  and  often  specu- 
lated on  what  I would  do,  if  I were  one. 

“ Have  you  though  ? ” said  Joe.  “ Astonishing ! ” 

“It’s  a pity  now,  Joe,”  said  I,  “that  you  did  not  get  on  a little  more,  when 
we  had  our  lessons  here  ; isn’t  it  ? ” 

“Well,  I don’t  know,”  returned  Joe.  “ I’m  so  awful  dull.  I’m  only  master  of 
iny  own  trade.  It  were  always  a pity  as  I was  so  awful  dull ; but  it’s  no  more  of 
a pity  now,  than  it  was — this  day  twelvemonth  —don’t  you  see  ! ” 

What  I had  meant  was,  that  when  I came  into  my  property  and  was  able  to  do 
something  foi  Joe,  it  would  have  been  much  more,  agreeable  if  he  had  been  better 


Great  Expectations . 


3i° 

qualified  for  a rise  in  st-ation.  He  was  so  perfectly  innocent  of  my  meaning, 
however,  that  1 thought  I would  mention  it  to  Biddy  in  preference. 

So,  when  we  had  walked  home  and  had  had  tea,  I took  Biddy  into  our  little 
garden  by  the  side  of  the  lane,  and,  after  throwing  out  in  a general  way  for  the 
elevation  of  her  spirits,  that  I should  never  forget  her,  said  I had  a favour  to  ask 
of  her. 

“ And  it  is,  Biddy,”  said  I,  “ that  you  will  not  omit  any  opportunity  of  helping 
Joe  on,  a little.” 

“ How  helping  him  on  ?”  asked  Biddy,  with  a steady  sort  of  glance. 

“ Well ! Joe  is  a dear  good  fellow — in  fact,  I think  he  is  the  dearest  fellow 
that  ever  lived — but  he  is  rather  backward  in  some  things.  For  instance,  Biddy, 
in  his  learning  and  his  manners.” 

Although  I was  looking  at  Biddy  as  I spoke,  and  although  she  opened  her  eyes 
very  wide  when  I had  spoken,  she  did  not  look  at  me. 

“ Oh,  his  manners ! won’t  his  manners  do,  then  ? ” asked  Biddy,  plucking  a 
black-currant  leaf. 

“ My  dear  Biddy,  they  do  very  well  here ” 

“ Oh  ! they  do  very  well  here  ? ” interrupted  Biddy,  looking  closely  at  the  leaf 
in  her  hand. 

“Hear  me  out — but  if  I were  to  remove  Joe  into  a higher  sphere,  as  I shall 
hope  to  remove  him  when  I fully  come  into  my  property,  they  would  hardly  do 
him  justice.” 

“ And  don’t  you  think  he  knows  that,”  asked  Biddy. 

It  was  such  a provoking  question  (for  it  had  never  in  the  most  distant  mannei 
occurred  to  me),  that  I said,  snappishly,  “ Biddy,  what  do  you  mean  ?” 

Biddy  having  rubbed  the  leaf  to  pieces  between  her  hands — and  the  smell  of  a 
black-currant  bush  has  ever  since  recalled  to  me  that  evening  in  the  little  garden 
by  the  side  of  the  lane — said,  “ Have  you  never  considered  that  he  may  be 
proud  ? ” 

“ Proud  ? ” I repeated,  with  disdainful  emphasis. 

“ Oh ! there  are  many  kinds  of  pride,”  said  Biddy,  looking  full  at  me  and 
shaking  her  head  ; “ pride  is  not  all  of  one  kind ” 

“ Well  ? What  are  you  stopping  for  ?”  said  I. 

“ Not  all  of  one  kind,”  resumed  Biddy.  “ He  may  be  too  proud  to  let  anyone 
take  him  out  of  a place  that  he  is  competent  to  fill,  and  fills  well  and  with  respect. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I think  he  is  : though  it  sounds  bold  in  me  to  say  so,  for 
you  must  know  him  far  better  than  I do.” 

“Now,  Biddy,”  said  I,  “ I am  very  sorry  to  see  this  in  you.  I did  not  expect 
to  see  this  in  you.  You  are  envious,  Biddy,  and  grudging.  You  are  dissatisfied 
on  account  of  my  rise  in  fortune,  and  you  can’t  help  showing  it.” 

“If  you  have  the  heart  to  think  so,”  returned  Biddy,  “say  so.  Say  so  over  and 
over  again,  if  you  have  the  heart  to  think  so.” 

“ If  you  have  the  heart  to  be  so,  you  mean,  Biddy,”  said  I,  in  a virtuous  and  supe- 
rioi  tone  ; “ don’t  put  it  off  upon  me.  I am  very  sony  to  see  it,  and  it’s  a — it’s  a 
bad  side  of  human  nature.  I did  intend  to  ask  you  to  use  any  little  opportunities 
you  might  have  after  I was  gone,  of  improving  dear  Joe.  But  after  this,  I ask 
you  nothing.  I am  extremely  sorry  to  see  this  in  you,  Biddy,”  I repeated.  “ It’s 
a — it’s  a bad  side  of  human  nature.” 

“Whether  you  scold  me  or  approve  of  me,”  returned  poor  Biddy,  “ you  may 
equally  depend  upon  my  trying  to  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power,  here,  at  all  times. 
And  whatever  opinion  you  take  away  of  me,  shall  make  no  difference  in  my 
remembrance  of  you.  Yet  a gentleman  should  not  be  unjust  neither,”  s lid  Biddy, 
diming  away  her  head. 


Mr.  Trabb  and  his  boy . 


ILL 

I again  warmly  repeated  that  it  was  a bad  side  of  human  nature  (in  which 
sentiment,  waiving  its  application,  I have  since  seen  reason  to  think  I was  right), 
and  I walked  down  the  little  path  away  from  Biddy,  and  Biddy  went  into  the 
house,  and  I went  out  at  the  garden  gate  and  took  a dejected  stroll  until  supper- 
time ; again  feeling  it  very  sorrowful  and  strange  that  this,  the  second  night  of  my 
bright  fortunes,  should  be  as  lonely  and  unsatisfactory  as  the  first. 

But,  morning  once  more  brightened  my  view,  and  I extended  my  elemcsicy  to 
Bidd},  and  we  dropped  the  subject.  Putting  on  the  be^t  clothes  I had,  I went 
into  town  as  early  as  I could  hope  to  find  the  shops  open,  and  presented  myself 
before  Mr.  Trabb,  the  tailor  ; who  was  having  his  breakfast  in  the  parlour  behind 
his  shop,  and  who  did  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  come  out  to  me,  but  called 
me  in  to  him. 

“ Well ! ” said  Mr.  Trabb,  in  a hail-fellow-well-met  kind  of  way.  “ How  are 
you,  and  what  can  I do  for  you  ? ” 

Mr.  Trabb  had  sliced  his  hot  roll  into  three  featherbeds,  and  was  slipping  butter 
in  between  the  blankets,  and  covering  it  up.  He  was  a prosperous  old  bachelor, 
and  his  open  window  looked  into  a prosperous  little  garden  and  orchard,  and  there 
was  a prosperous  iron  safe  let  into  the  wall  at  the  side  of  his  fireplace,  and  I did 
not  doubt  that  heaps  of  his  prosperity  were  put  away  in  it  in  bags. 

“Mr.  Trabb,”  said  I,  “it’s  an  unpleasant  thing  to  have  to  mention,  because 
it  looks  like  boasting  ; but  I have  come  into  a handsome  property.” 

A change  passed  over  Mr.  Trabb.  He  forgot  the  butter  in  bed,  got  up  from 
the  bedside,  and  wiped  his  fingers  on  the  table-cloth,  exclaiming,  “ Lord  bless 
my  soul ! ” 

“ I am  going  up  to  my  guardian  in  London,”  said  I,  casually  drawing  some 
guineas  out  of  my  pocket  and  looking  at  them  ; “ and  I want  a fashionable  suit  of 
clothes  to  go  in.  I wish  to  pay  for  them,”  I added — otherwise  I thought  he  might 
only  pretend  to  make  them — “with  ready  money.” 

“ My  dear  sir,”  said  Mr.  Trabb,  as  he  respectfully  bent  his  body,  opened  his 
arms,  and  took  the  liberty  of  touching  me  on  the  outside  of  each  elbow,  “ don’t 
hurt  me  by  mentioning  that.  May  I venture  to  congratulate  you  ? Would  you 
do  me  the  favour  of  stepping  into  the  shop  ? ” 

Mr.  Trabb’s  boy  was  the  most  audacious  boy  in  all  that  country-side.  When  I 
had  entered  he  was  sweeping  the  shop,  and  he  had  sweetened  his  labours  by 
sweeping  over  me.  He  was  still  sweeping  when  I came  out  into  the  shop  with 
Mr.  Trabb,  and  he  knocked  the  broom  against  all  possible  corners  and  obstacles, 
to  express  (as  I understood  it)  equality  with  any  blacksmith,  alive  or  dead. 

“ Hold  that  noise,”  said  Mr.  Trabb,  with  the  greatest  sternness,  “ or  I’ll  knock 
your  head  off!  Do  me  the  favour  to  be  seated,  sir.  Now,  this,”  said  Mr.  Trabb, 
taking  down  a roll  of  cloth,  and  tiding  it  out  in  a flowing  manner  over  the  counter, 
preparatory  to  getting  his  hand  under  it  to  show  the  gloss,  “is  a very  sweet  article. 
I can  recommend  it  for  your  purpose,  sir,  because  it  really  is  extra  super.  But  you 
shall  see  some  others.  Give  me  Number  Four,  you  ! ” (To  the  boy,  and  with  a 
dreadfully  severe  stare  ; foreseeing  the  danger  of  that  miscreant’s  brushing  me  with 
it,  or  making  some  other  sign  of  familiarity.) 

Mr.  Trabb  never  removed  his  stern  eye  from  the  boy  until  he  had  deposited 
number  four  on  the  counter  and  was  at  a safe  distance  again.  Then,  he  com- 
manded him  to  bring  number  five,  and  number  eight.  “And  let  me  have  none 
Of  your  tricks  here,”  said  Mr.  Trabb,  “or  you  shall  repent  it,  you  young  scoundrel, 
the  longest  day  you  have  to  live.” 

Mr.  Trabb  then  bent  over  number  four,  and  in  a sort  of  deferential  confidence 
recommended  it  to  me  as  a light  article  for  summer  wear,  an  article  much  in  vogue 
among  the  nobility  and  gentry,  an  article  that  it  would  ever  be  an  honour  to  him  ttf 


Great  Expectations . 


Ill 

reflect  upon  a distinguished  fellow-townsman’s  (if  he  might  claim  me  for  a fellow- 
townsman)  having  worn.  “Are  you  bringing  numbers  five  and  eight,  you 
vagabond,”  said  Mr.  Trabb  to  the  boy  after  that,  “ or  shall  I kick  you  out  of  the 
shop  and  bring  them  myself?” 

I selected  the  materials  for  a suit,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Trabb’s  judgment, 
and  re-entered  the  parlour  to  be  measured.  For,  although  Mr.  Trabb  had  my 
measure  already,  and  had  previously  been  quite  contented  with  it,  he  said  apologe- 
tically  that  it  “wouldn’t  do  under  existing  circumstances,  sir- — wouldn’t  do  at  all.” 
So,  Mr.  Trabb  measured  and  calculated  me  in  the  parlour,  as  if  I were  an  estate 
and  he  the  finest  species  of  surveyor,  and  gave  himself  such  a world  of  trouble 
that  I felt  that  no  suit  of  clothes  could  possibly  remunerate  him  for  his  pains. 
When  he  had  at  last  done  and  had  appointed  to  send  the  articles  to  Mr. 
Pumblechook’s  on  the  Thursday  evening,  he  said,  with  his  hand  upon  the  parlour 
lock,  “ I know,  sir,  that  London  gentlemen  cannot  be  expected  to  patronise  local 
work,  as  a rule  ; but  if  you  would  give  me  a turn  now  and  then  in  the  quality  of  a 
townsman,  I should  greatly  esteem  it.  Good  morning,  sir,  much  obliged. — Door !” 

The  last  word  was  flung  at  the  boy,  who  had  not  the  least  notion  what  it  meant. 
But  I saw  him  collapse  as  his  master  rubbed  me  out  with  his  hands,  and  my  first 
decided  experience  of  the  stupendous  power  of  money,  was,  that  it  had  morally 
laid  upon  his  back,  Trabb’s  boy. 

After  this  memorable  event,  I went  to  the  hatter’s,  and  the  bootmaker’s,  and 
the  hosier’s,  and  felt  rather  like  Mother  Hubbard’s  dog  whose  outfit  required  the 
services  of  so  many  trades.  I also  went  to  the  coach-office  and  took  my  place  for 
seven  o’clock  on  Saturday  morning.  It  was  not  necessary  to  explain  everywhere 
that  I had  come  into  a handsome  property  ; but  whenever  I said  anything  to  that 
effect,  it  followed  that  the  officiating  tradesman  ceased  to  have  his  attention 
diverted  through  the  window  by  the  High-street,  and  concentrated  his  mind  upon 
me.  When  I had  ordered  everything  I wanted,  I directed  my  steps  towards 
pumblechook’s,  and,  as  I approached  that  gentleman’s  place  of  business,  I saw 
him  standing  at  his  door. 

He  was  waiting  for  me  with  great  impatience.  He  had  been  out  early  with  the 
chaise-cart,  and  had  called  at  the  forge  and  heard  the  news.  He  had  prepared  a 
collation  for  me  in  the  Barnwell  parlour,  and  he  too  ordered  his  shopman  to  “ come 
out  of  the  gangway  ” as  my  sacred  person  passed. 

“My  dear  friend,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  taking  me  by  both  hands,  when  he 
and  I and  the  collation  were  alone,  “ I give  you  joy  of  your  good  fortune.  Well 
deserved,  well  deserved  ! ” 

This  was  coming  to  the  point,  and  I thought  it  a sensible  way  of  expressing 
himself. 

“To  think,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  after  snorting  admiration  at  me  for  some 
moments,  “that  I should  have  been  the  humble  instrument  of  leading  up  to  this, 
is  a proud  reward.” 

I begged  Mr.  Pumblechook  to  remember  that  nothing  was  to  be  ever  said  or 
hinted,  on  that  point. 

41  My  dear  young  friend,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook  ; “ if  you  will  allow  me  to  call 
you  so ” 

I murmured  “ Certainly,”  and  Mr.  Pumblechook  took  me  by  both  hands  again, 
and  communicated  a movement  to  his  waistcoat,  which  had  an  emotional  appear- 
ance, though  it  was  rather  low  down,  “ My  dear  young  friend,  rely  upon  my  doing 
my  little  all  in  your  absence,  by  keeping  the  fact  before  the  mind  of  Joseph. — 
Joseph ! ” said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  in  the  way  of  a compassionate  adjuration. 
“Joseph  ! ! Joseph  ! ! ! ” Thereupon  he  shook  his  head  and  tapped  it,  express* 
ing  his  sense  of  deficiency  in  Joseph. 


Servility  of  Pumblechook, 


y\ 

“But  my  dear  young  friend,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  “you  must  be  hungry* 
you  must  be  exhausted.  Be  seated.  Here  is  a chicken  had  round  from  the  Boar, 
here  is  a tongue  had  round  from  the  Boar,  here’s  one  or  two  little  things  ha  i 
round  from  the  Boar,  that  I hope  you  may  not  despise.  But  do  I,”  said  Mr. 
Pumblechook,  getting  up  again  the  moment  after  he  had  sat  down,  “ see  afor* 
me,  him  as  I ever  sported  with  in  his  times  of  happy  infancy  ? And  raay  I — may 
I ? ” 

This  May  I,  meant  might  he  shake  hands  ? I consented,  and  he  was  fervenl 
and  then  sat  down  again. 

“ Here  is  wine,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook.  “ Let  us  drink,  Thanks  to  Fortunt 
and  may  she  ever  pick  out  her  favourites  with  equal  judgment ! And  yet  I can 
not,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  getting  up  again,  “see  afore  me  One — and  likcwisi 
drink  to  One — without  again  expressing — May  I — may  1 ? ” 

I said  he  might,  and  he  shook  hands  with  me  again,  and  emptied  his  glass  an< 
turned  it  upside  down.  I did  the  same  ; and  if  I had  turned  myself  upside  dowt 
before  drinking,  the  wine  could  not  have  gone  more  direct  to  my  head. 

Mr.  Pumblechook  helped  me  to  the  liver  wing,  and  to  the  best  slice  of  tongue 
(none  of  those  out-of-the-way  No  Thoroughfares  of  Pork  now),  and  took,  com* 
paratively  speaking,  no  care  of  himself  at  all.  “Ah!  poultry,  poultry!  You 
little  thought,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  apostrophising  the  fowl  in  the  dish, 
“when  you  was  a young  fledgling,  what  was  in  store  for  you.  You  little  thought 
you  was  to  be  refreshment  beneath  this  humble  roof  for  one  as — Call  it  a weak- 
ness, if  you  will,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  getting  up  again,  “but  may  I?  may 
I ? ” 

It  began  to  be  unnecessary  to  repeat  the  form  of  saying  he  might,  so  he  did  it 
at  once.  How  he  ever  did  it  so  often  without  wounding  himself  with  my  knife,  I 
don’t  know. 

“And  your  sister,”  he  resumed,  after  a little  steady  eating,  “ which  had  the 
honour  of  bringing  you  up  by  hand ! It’s  a sad  picter,  to  reflect  that  she’s  no 
longer  equal  to  fully  understanding  the  honour.  May ” 

I saw  he  was  about  to  come  at  me  again,  and  I stopped  him. 

“ We’ll  drink  her  health,”  said  I. 

“ Ah  ! ” cried  Mr.  Pumblechook,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  quite  flaccid  with 
admiration,  “that’s  the  way  you  know  ’em,  sir  ! ” (I  don’t  know  who  Sir  was,  but 
he  certainly  was  not  I,  and  there  was  no  third  person  present) ; “ that’s  the  way  you 
know  the  noble-minded,  sir  ! Ever  forgiving  and  ever  affable.  It  might,”  said 
the  servile  Pumblechook,  putting  down  his  untasted  glass  in  a hurry  and  getting 
up  again,  “to  a common  person,  have  the  appearance  of  repeating — but  may 

When  he  had  done  it,  he  resumed  his  seat  and  drank  to  my  sister.  “ Let  us 
never  be  blind,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  “ to  her  faults  of  temper,  but  it  is  to  be 
hoped  she  meant  well.” 

At  about  this  time,  I began  to  observe  that  he  was  getting  flushed  in  the  face  ; 
as  to  myself,  I felt  all  face,  steeped  in  wine  and  smarting. 

I mentioned  to  Mr.  Pumblechook  that  I wished  to  have  my  new  clothes  sent  to 
his  house,  and  he  was  ecstatic  on  my  so  distinguishing  him.  I mentioned  my  reason 
for  desiring  to  avoid  observation  in  the  village,  and  he  lauded  it  to  the  skies. 
There  was  nobody  but  himself,  he  intimated,  worthy  of  my  confidence,  and — in 
short,  might  he  ? Then  he  asked  me  tenderly  if  I remembered  our  boyish  games 
at  sums,  and  how  we  had  gone  together  to  have  me  bound  apprentice,  and,  in 
effect,  how  he  had  ever  been  my  favourite  fancy  and  my  chosen  friend  ? If  I had 
taken  ten  times  as  many  glasses  of  wine  as  I had,  I should  have  known  that  he 
never  had  stood  in  that  relation  towards  me,  and  should  in  my  heart  of  hearts  have 


Great  Expectations . 


3M 

repudiated  the  idea.  Yet  for  all  that,  I remember  feeling  convinced  that  I had 
been  much  mistaken  in  him,  and  that  he  was  a sensible  practical  good-hearted 
prime  fellow. 

By  degrees  he  fell  to  reposing  such  great  confidence  in  me,  as  to  ask  my  adyice 
in  reference  to  his  own  affairs.  He  mentioned  that  there  was  an  opportunity  for 
a great  amalgamation  and  monopoly  of  the  corn  and  seed  trade  on  those  premises, 
if  enlarged,  such  as  had  never  occurred  before  in  that,  or  any  other  neighbour- 
hood. What  alone  was  wanting  to  the  realisat-on  of  a vast  fortune,  he  considered 
to  be  More  Capital.  Those  were  the  two  little  words,  more  capital.  Now  it 
appeared  to  him  (Pumblechook)  that  if  that  capital  were  got  into  the  business, 
through  a sleeping  partner,  sir — which  sleeping  partner  would  have  nothing  to  do 
but  walk  in,  by  self  or  deputy,  whenever  he  pleased,  and  examine  the  books — and 
walk  in  twice  a year  and  take  his  profits  away  in  his  pocket,  to  the  tune  of  fifty 
per  cent. — it  appeared  to  him  that  that  might  be  an  opening  for  a young  gentle- 
man of  spirit  combined  with  property,  which  would  be  worthy  of  his  attention. 
But  what  did  I think  ? He  had  great  confidence  in  my  opinion,  and  what  did  I 
think?  I gave  it  as  my  opinion.  '‘Wait  a bit!”  The  united  vastness  and  dis- 
tinctness of  this  view  so  struck  him,  that  he  no  longer  asked  me  if  he  might  shake 
hands  with  me,  but  said  he  really  must — and  did. 

We  drank  all  the  wine,  and  Mr.  Pumblechook  pledged  himself  over  and  over 
again  to  keep  Joseph  up  to  the  mark  (I  don’t  know  what  mark),  and  to  render  me 
efficient  and  constant  service  (I  don’t  know  what  service).  He  also  made  known 
to  me  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  certainly  after  having  kept  his  secret 
wonderfully  well,  that  he  had  always  said  of  me,  “ That  boy  is  no  common  boy, 
and  mark  me,  his  fortun’  will  be  no  common  fortun’.”  He  said  with  a tearful 
smile  that  it  was  a singular  thing  to  think  of  now,  and  I said  so  too.  Finally,  I 
went  out  into  the  air,  with  a dim  perception  that  there  was  something  unwonted 
in  the  conduct  of  the  sunshine,  and  found  that  I had  slumberously  got  to  the  turn- 
pike without  having  taken  any  account  of  the  road. 

There,  I was  roused  by  Mr.  Pumblechook’s  hailing  me.  He  was  a long  way 
down  the  sunny  street,  and  was  making  expressive  gestures  for  me  to  stop.  I 
stopped,  and  he  came  up  breathless. 

“ No,  my  dear  friend,”  said  he,  when  he  had  recovered  wind  for  speech.  “ Not 
if  I can  help  it.  This  occasion  shall  not  entirely  pass  without  that  affability  on 
your  part. — May  I,  as  an  old  friend  and  well-wisher  ? May  I ? ” 

We  shook  hands  for  the  hundredth  time  at  least,  and  he  ordered  a young  carter 
out  of  my  way  with  the  greatest  indignation.  Then,  he  blessed  me,  and  stood 
waving  his  hand  to  me  until  I had  passed  the  crook  in  the  road ; and  then  I 
turned  into  a field  and  had  a long  nap  under  a hedge  before  I pursued  my  way 
home. 

I had  scant  luggage  to  take  with  me  to  London,  for  little  of  the  little  I possessed 
was  adapted  to  my  new  station.  But,  I began  packing  that  same  afternoon,  and 
wildly  packed  up  things  that  I knew  I should  want  next  morning,  in  a fiction  that 
there  was  not  a moment  to  be  lost. 

So,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and  Thursday,  passed  ; and  on  Friday  morning  I 
went  to  Mr.  Pumblechook’s,  to  put  on  my  new  clothes  and  pay  my  visit  to  Miss 
Havisham.  Mr.  Pumblechook’s  own  room  was  given  up  to  me  to  dress  in,  and 
was  decorated  with  clean  towels  expressly  for  the  event.  My  clothes  were  rather 
a disappointment,  of  course.  Probably  every  new  and  eagerly  expected  garment 
ever  put  on  since  clothes  came  in,  fell  a trifle  short  of  the  wearer’s  expectation. 
But  after  I had  had  my  new  suit  on,  some  half  an  hour,  and  had  gone  through  an 
immensity  of  posturing  with  Mr.  Pumblechook’s  very  limited  dressing-glass,  in 
die  iVile  endeavour  to  see  my  legs,  it  seemed  to  fit  me  better.  It  being  market 


I bid  Miss  Havisham  good-bye. 


315 


rooming  at  a neighbouring  town  some  ten  miles  off,  Mr.  Pumblechook  was  not  at 
home.  I had  not  told  him  exactly  when  I meant  to  leave,  and  was  not  likely  to 
shake  hands  with  him  again  before  departing.  This  was  all  as  it  sh  >uld  be,  and 
I went  out  in  my  new  array:  fearfully  ashamed  of  having  to  pass  the  shopman, 
and  suspicious  after  all  that  I was  at  a personal  disadvantage,  something  like  Joe’s 
in  his  Sunday  suit. 

I went  circuitously  to  Miss  Havisham’s  by  all  the  back  ways,  and  rang  at  the 
bell  constrainedly,  on  account  of  the  stiff  long  fingers  of  my  gloves.  Sarah  Pocket 
came  to  the  gate,  and  positively  reeled  back  when  she  saw  me  so  changed ; her 
walnut-shell  countenance  likewise,  turned  from  brown  to  green  and  yellow. 

“ You  ? ” said  she.  “ You  ? Good  gracious  ! What  do  you  want  ? ” 

“ I am  going  to  London,  Miss  Pocket,”  said  I,  “ and  want  to  say  good-bye  to 
Miss  Havisham.” 

I was  not  expected,  for  she  left  me  locked  in  the  yard,  while  she  went  to  ask  if 
I were  to  be  admitted.  After  a very  short  delay,  she  returned  and  took  me  up, 
staring  at  me  all  the  way. 

Miss  Havisham  was  taking  exercise  in  the  room  with  the  long  spread  table, 
leaning  on  her  crutch  stick.  The  room  was  lighted  as  of  yore,  and  at  the  sound 
of  her  entrance,  she  stopped  and  turned.  She  was  then  just  abreast  of  the  rotted 
bride-cake. 

“ Don’t  go,  Sarah,”  she  said.  “ Well,  Pip  ? ” 

“ I start  for  London,  Miss  Havisham,  to-morrow,”  I was  exceedingly  careful 
what  I said,  “and  I thought  you  would  kindly  not  mind  my  taking  leave  of 
you.” 

“This  is  a gay  figure,  Pip,”  said  she,  making  her  crutch  stick  play  round  me, 
as  if  she,  the  fairy  godmother  who  had  changed  me,  were  bestowing  the  finishing 
gift. 

“ I have  come  into  such  good  fortune  since  I saw  you  last,  Miss  Havisham,”  I 
murmured.  “ And  I am  so  grateful  for  it,  Miss  Havisham  ! ” 

“Ay,  ay!”  said  she,  looking  at  the  discomfited  and  envious  Sarah,  with 
delight.  “ I have  seen  Mr.  Jaggers.  / have  heard  about  it,  Pip.  So  you  go 
to-morrow  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Miss  Havisham.” 

“ And  you  are  adopted  by  a rich  person  ? ” 

“Yes,  Miss  Havisham.” 

“ Not  named  ?” 

“No,  Miss  Havisham.” 

“ And  Mr.  Jaggers  is  made  your  guardian  ?w 
“ Yes,  Miss  Havisham.” 

She  quite  gloated  on  these  questions  and  answers,  so  keen  was  her  enjoyment 
>1  Sarah  Pocket’s  jealous  dismay.  “Well!”  she  went  on  ; “you  have  a pro- 
mising career  before  you.  Be  good— deserve  it — and  abide  by  Mr.  Jaggers’s 
instructions.”  She  looked  at  me,  and  looked  at  Sarah,  and  Sarah’s  countenance 
wrung  out  of  her  watchful  face  a cruel  smile.  “ Good-bye,  Pip  ! — you  will  always 
keep  the  name  of  Pip,  you  know.” 

“Yes,  Miss  Havisham.” 

“ Good-bye,  Pip  !” 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  I went  down  on  my  knee  and  put  it  to  my  lips. 
1 had  not  considered  how  I should  take  leave  of  her ; it  came  naturally  to  me  at 
the  moment,  to  do  this.  She  looked  at  Sarah  Pocket  with  triumph  in  her  wein* 
eyes,  and  so  I left  my  fairy  godmother,  with  both  her  hands  on  her  crutch  stick, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  dimly  lighted  room  beside  the  rotten  bride-cake  tlia/ 
wss  hidden  in  cobwebs. 


Great  Expectations . 


316 

Sarah  Pocket  conducted  me  down,  as  if  I were  a ghost  who  must  be  seen  out. 
She  could  not  get  over  my  appearance,  and  was  in  the  last  degree  confounded.  I 
said  “Good-bye,  Miss  Pocket;”  but  she  merely  stared,  and  did  not  seem  collected 
enough  to  know  that  I had  spoken.  Clear  of  the  house,  I made  the  best  of  my 
way  back  to  Pumblechook’s,  took  off  my  new  clothes,  made  them  into  a bundle, 
and  went  back  home  in  my  older  dress,  carrying  it — to  speak  the  truth — much 
more  at  my  ease  too,  though  I had  the  bundle  to  carry. 

And  now,  those  six  days  which  were  to  have  run  out  so  slowly,  had  run  out  fast 
and  were  gone,  and  to-morrow  looked  me  in  the  face  more  steadily  than  I could 
look  at  it.  As  the  six  evenings  had  dwindled  away  to  five,  to  four,  to  three,  to 
two,  I had  become  more  and  more  appreciative  of  the  society  of  Joe  and  Biddy. 
On  this  last  evening,  I dressed  myself  out  in  my  new  clothes,  for  their  delight, 
and  sat  in  my  splendour  until  bedtime.  We  had  a hot  supper  on  the  occasion, 
graced  by  the  inevitable  roast  fowl,  and  we  had  some  flip  to  finish  with.  We 
were  all  very  low,  and  none  the  higher  for  pretending  to  be  in  spirits. 

I was  to  leave  our  village  at  five  in  the  morning,  carrying  my  little  hand-port- 
manteau, and  I had  told  Jce  that  I wished  to  walk  away  all  alone.  I am 
afraid— sore  afraid — that  this  purpose  originated  in  my  sense  of  the  contrast  there 
would  be  between  me  and  Joe,  if  we  went  to  the  coach  together.  I had  pretended 
with  myself  that  there  was  nothing  of  this  taint  in  the  arrangement ; but  when  I 
went  up  to  my  little  room  on  this  last  night,  I felt  compelled  to  admit  that  it 
might  be  done  so,  and  had  an  impulse  upon  me  to  go  down  again  and  entreat  Joe 
to  walk  with  me  in  the  morning.  I did  not. 

All  night  there  were  coaches  in  my  broken  sleep,  going  to  wrong  places  instead 
of  to  London,  and  having  in  the  traces,  now  dogs,  now  cats,  now  pigs,  now  men 
— never  horses.  Fantastic  failures  of  journeys  occupied  me  until  the  day  dawned 
and  the  birds  were  singing.  Then,  I got  up  and  partly  dressed,  and  sat  at  the 
window  to  take  a last  look  out,  and  in  taking  it  fell  asleep. 

Biddy  was  astir  so  early  to  get  my  breakfast,  that,  although  I did  not  sleep  at 
the  window  an  hour,  I smelt  the  9moke  of  the  kitchen  fire  when  I started  up  with 
a terrible  idea  that  it  must  be  late  in  the  afternoon.  But  long  after  that,  and  long 
after  I heard  the  clinking  of  the  teacups  and  was  quite  ready,  I wanted  the  reso- 
tion  to  go  down  stairs.  After  all,  I remained  up  there,  repeatedly  unlocking  and 
unstrapping  my  small  portmanteau  and  locking  and  strapping  it  up  again,  until 
Biddy  called  to  me  that  I was  late. 

It  was  a hurried  breakfast  with  no  taste  in  it.  I got  up  from  the  meal,  saying 
with  a sort  of  briskness,  as  if  it  had  only  just  occurred  to  me,  “ Well  ! I suppose 
I must  be  off!”  and  then  I kissed  my  sister,  who  was  laughing,  and  nodding  and 
shaking  in  her  usual  chair,  and  kissed  Biddy,  and  threw  my  arms  around  Joe's 
neck.  Then  I took  up  my  little  portmanteau  and  walked  out.  The  last  I saw  ot 
them  was,  when  I presently  heard  a scuffle  behind  me,  and  looking  back,  saw  Joe 
throwing  an  old  shoe  after  me  and  Biddy  throwing  another  old  shoe.  I stopped 
then,  to  wave  my  hat,  and  dear  old  Joe  waved  his  strong  right  arm  above  his  head, 
crying  huskily,  “ Hooroar ! ” and  Biddy  put  her  apron  to  her  face. 

I walked  away  at  a good  pace,  thinking  it  was  easier  to  go  than  I had  supposed 
it  would  be,  and  reflecting  that  it  would  never  have  done  to  have  an  old  shoe 
thrown  after  the  coach,  in  sight  of  all  the  High-street.  I whistled  and  mad$ 
nothing  of  going.  But  the  village  was  very  peaceful  and  quiet,  and  the  light 
mists  were  solemnly  rising,  as  if  to  show  me  the  world,  and  I had  been  so  innocent 
and  little  there,  and  all  beyond  was  so  unknown  and  great,  that  in  a moment  with 
a strong  heave  and  sob  I broke  into  tears.  It  was  by  the  finger-post  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  and  1 laid  my  hand  upon  it,  and  said,  “ Good-bye,  O my  dear,  deal 
friend  ! ” 


I make  the  journey  to  London. 


3i7 


Heaven  knows  we  need  never  be  ashamed  of  our  tears,  for  they  are  rain  upon 
the  blinding  dust  of  earth,  overlying  our  hard  hearts.  I was  better  after  I had 
cried,  than  before — more  sorry,  more  aware  of  my  own  ingratitude,  more  gentle. 
If  1 had  cried  before,  I should  have  had  Joe  with  me  then. 

So  subdued  I was  by  those  tears,  and  by  their  breaking  out  again  in  the  course 
of  the  quiet  walk,  that  when  I was  on  the  coach,  and  it  was  clear  of  the  town,  I 
deliberated  with  an  aching  heart  whether  I would  not  get  down  when  we  changed 
horses  and  walk  back,  and  have  another  evening  at  home,  and  a better  parting. 
We  changed,  and  I had  not  made  up  my  mind,  and  still  reflected  for  my  comfort 
that  it  would  be  quite  practicable  to  get  down  and  walk  back,  when  we  changed 
again.  And  while  I was  occupied  with  those  deliberations,  I would  fancy  an 
exac^  resemblance  to  Joe  in  some  man  coming  along  the  road  towards  us,  and  my 
heart  would  boat  high. — As  if  he  could  possibly  be  there  ! 

We  changed  again,  and  yet  again,  and  it  was  now  too  late  and  too  far  to  go 
back,  and  I went  on.  And  the  mists  had  all  solemnly  risen  now,  and  the  world 
lay  spread  before  me. 

THIS  IS  THE  END  OF  THE  FIRST  STAGE  OF  PIP’S  EXPECTATIONS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  journey  from  our  town  to  the  metropolis,  was  a journey  of  about  five  hours. 
It  was  a little  past  mid-day  when  the  four-horse  stage-coach  by  which  I was  a 
passenger,  got  into  the  ravel  of  traffic  frayed  out  about  the  Cross  Keys,  Wood- 
street,  Cheapside,  London. 

We  Britons  had  at  that  time  particularly  settled  that  it  was  treasonable  to  doubt 
our  having  and  our  being  the  best  of  everything : otherwise,  while  I was  scared 
by  the  immensity  of  London,  I think  I might  have  had  some  faint  doubts  whether 
it  was  not  rather  ugly,  crooked,  narrow,  and  dirty. 

Mr.  Jaggers  had  duly  sent  me  his  address ; it  was  Little  Britain,  and  he  had 
written  after  it  on  his  card,  “just  out  of  Smithfield,  and  close  by  the  coach-office.” 
Nevertheless,  a hackney-coachman,  who  seemed  to  have  as  many  capes  to  his 
greasy  great-coat  as  he  was  years  old,  packed  me  up  in  his  coach  and  hemmed  me 
in  with  a folding  and  jingling  barrier  of  steps,  as  if  he  were  going  to  take  me  fifty 
miles.  His  getting  on  his  box,  which  I remember  to  have  been  decorated  with 
an  old  weather-stained  pea-green  hammercloth,  moth-eaten  into  rags,  was  quite  a 
work  of  time.  It  was  a wonderful  equipage,  with  six  great  coronets*  outside,  and 
ragged  things  behind  for  I don’t  know  how  many  footmen  to  hold  on  by,  and  a 
harrow  below  them,  to  prevent  amateur  footmen  from  yielding  to  the  temptation. 

I had  scarcely  had  time  to  enjoy  the  coach  and  to  think  how  like  a straw-yard 
it  was,  and  yet  how  like  a rag-shop,  and  to  wonder  why  the  horses’  nose-bags 
were  kept  inside,  when  I observed  the  coachman  beginning  to  get  down,  as  if 
we  were  going  to  stop  presently.  And  stop  we  presently  did,  in  a gloomy  street, 
at  certain  offices  with  an  open  door,  whereon  was  painted  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ How  much  ?”  I asked  the  coachman. 

The  coachman  answered,  “ A shilling — unless  you  wish  to  make  it  more.” 

I naturally  said  I had  no  wish  to  make  it  more. 

“Then  it  must  be  a shilling,”  observed  the  coachman.  “ I don’t  want  to  get 
into  trouble.  I know  him  /”  He  darkly  closed  an  eye  at  Mr.  Jaggers’s  name* 
and  shook  his  head. 


Great  Expectations . 


3]8 

When  he  had  got  his  shilling,  and  had  in  course  of  time  completed  the  ascent  ta 
his  box,  and  had  got  away  (which  appeared  to  relieve  his  mind),  I went  into  the 
front  office  with  my  little  portmanteau  in  my  hand,  and  asked,  was  Mr.  Jaggers  at 
home  ? 

“ He  is  not,”  returned  the  clerk.  “ He  is  in  Court  at  present.  Am  I addressing 
Mr.  Pip  ?” 

I signified  that  he  was  addressing  Mr.  Pip. 

“ Mr.  Jaggers  left  word  would  you  wait  in  his  room.  He  couldn’t  say  how  long 
he  might  be,  having  a case  on.  But  it  stands  to  reason,  his  time  being  valuable, 
that  he  won’t  be  longer  than  he  can  help.” 

With  those  words,  the  clerk  opened  a door,  and  ushered  me  into  an  inner 
chamber  at  I he  back.  Here  we  found  a gentleman  with  one  eye,  in  a velveteen 
suit  and  knee-breeches,  who  wiped  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  on  being  interrupted  in 
the  perusal  of  the  newspaper. 

“ Go  and  wait  outside,  Mike,”  said  the  clerk. 

I began  to  say  that  I hoped  I was  not  interrupting when  the  clerk  shoved 

this  gentleman  out  with  as  little  ceremony  as  I ever  saw  used,  and  tossing  his  fur 
cap  out  after  him,  left  me  alone. 

Mr.  Jaggers’s  room  was  lighted  by  a skylight  only,  and  was  a most  dismal 
place ; the  skylight,  eccentrically  patched  like  a broken  head,  and  the  distorted 
adjoining  houses  looking  as  if  they  had  twisted  themselves  to  peep  down  at  me 
through  it.  There  were  not  so  many  papers  about,  as  I should  have  expected  to 
see ; and  there  were  some  odd  objects  about,  that  I should  not  have  expected  to 
see — such  as  an  old  rusty  pistol,  a sword  in  a scabbard,  several  strange-looking 
boxes  and  packages,  and  two  dreadful  casts  on  a shelf,  of  faces  peculiarly  swollen, 
and  twitchy  about  the  nose.  Mr.  Jaggers’s  own  high-backed  chair  was  of  deadly 
black  horse-hair,  with  rows  of  brass  nails  round  it,  like  a coffin  ; and  I fancied  I 
could  see  how  he  leaned  back  in  it,  and  bit  his  forefinger  at  the  clients.  The 
room  was  but  small,  and  the  clients  seemed  to  have  had  a habit  of  backing  up 
against  the  wall : the  wall,  especially  opposite  to  Mr.  Jaggers’s  chair,  being  greasy 
with  shoulders.  I recalled,  too,  that  the  one-eyed  gentleman  had  shuffled  forth 
against  the  wall  when  I was  the  innocent  cause  of  his  being  turned  out. 

I sat  down  in  the  cliental  chair  placed  over  against  Mr.  Jaggers’s  chair,  and 
became  fascinated  by  the  dismal  atmosphere  of  the  place.  I called  to  mind  that 
the  clerk  had  the  same  air  of  knowing  something  to  everybody  else’s  disadvantage, 
as  his  master  had.  I wondered  how  many  other  clerks  there  were  up-stairs,  and 
whether  they  all  claimed  to  have  the  same  detrimental  mastery  of  their  fellow- 
creatures.  I wondered  what  was  the  history  of  all  the  odd  litter  about  the  room, 
and  how  it  came  there.  I wondered  whether  the  two  swollen  faces  were  of 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  family,  and,  if  he  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  had  a pair  of  such 
ill-looking  relations,  why  he  stuck  them  on  that  dusty  perch  for  the  blacks  and 
flies  to  settle  on,  instead  of  giving  them  a place  at  home.  Of  course  I had  no 
experience  of  a London  summer  day,  and  my  spirits  may  have  been  oppressed  by 
the  hot  exhausted  air,  and  by  the  dust  and  grit  that  lay  thick  0*1  everything.  But 
I sat  wondering  and  waiting  in  Mr.  Jaggers’s  close  room,  until  I really  could  not 
bear  the  two  casts  on  the  shelf  above  Mr.  Jaggers’s  chair,  and  got  up  and  went 
out. 

When  I told  the  clerk  that  I would  take  a turn  in  the  air  while  I waited,  he 
advised  me  to  go  round  the  comer  and  I should  come  into  Smithfield.  So,  I came 
into  Smithfield  ; and  the  shameful  place,  being  all  asmear  with  fw  di  and  fat  and 
blood  and  foam,  seemed  to  stick  to  me.  So  I rubbed  it  off  with  al.  possible  speed 
by  turning  into  a street  where  I saw  the  great  black  dome  of  Sain'  Mini’s  bulging 
me  from  behind  a grim  stone  building  which  a bystander  sai^-  was  Newgate 


Mr.  J 'aggers  s clients. 


3*9 


Prison.  Following  the  wall  of  the  jail,  I found  the  roadway  covered  with  straw 
to  deaden  the  noise  of  passing  vehicles  ; and  from  this,  and  from  the  quantity  oi 
people  standing  about,  smelling  strongly  of  spirits  and  beer,  I inferred  that  i be 
trials  were  on. 

While  I looked  about  me  here,  an  exceedingly  dirty  and  partially  drunk  minister 
of  justice  asked  me  if  I would  like  to  step  in  and  hear  a trial  or  so  : informing  me 
that  he  could  give  me  a front  place  for  half-a-crown,  whence  I should  command  a 
full  view  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  in  his  wig  and  robes — mentioning  that  awful 
personage  like  waxwork,  and  presently  offering  him  at  the  reduced  price  of 
eighteenpence.  As  I declined  the  proposal  on  the  plea  of  an  appointment,  he 
was  so  good  as  to  take  me  into  a yard  and  show  me  where  the  gallows  was  kept, 
and  also  where  people  were  publicly  whipped,  and  then  he  showed  me  the 
Debtors’  Door,  out  of  which  culprits  came  to  be  hanged ; heightening  the  interest 
of  that  dreadful  portal  by  giving  me  to  understand  that  “ four  on  ’em  ” would 
come  out  at  that  door  the  day  after  to-morrow  at  eight  in  the  morning  to  be  killed 
in  a row.  This  was  horrible,  and  gave  me  a sickening  idea  of  London  : the  more 
so  as  the  Lord  Chief  Justice’s  proprietor  wore  (from  his  hat  down  to  his  boots 
and  up  again  to  his  pocket-handkerchief  inclusive)  mildewed  clothes,  which  had 
evidently  not  belonged  to  him  originally,  and  which,  I took  it  into  my  head,  he 
had  bought  cheap  of  the  executioner.  Under  these  circumstances  I thought  my- 
self well  rid  of  him  for  a shilling. 

I dropped  into  the  office  to  ask  if  Mr.  Jaggers  had  come  in  yet,  and  I found  he 
had  not,  and  I strolled  out  again.  This  time,  I made  the  tour  of  Little  Britain, 
and  turned  into  Bartholomew  Close  ; and  now  I became  aware  that  other  people 
were  waiting  about  for  Mr.  Jaggers,  as  well  as  I.  There  were  two  men  of  secret 
appearance  lounging  in  Bartholomew  Close,  and  thoughtfully  fitting  their  feet 
into  the  cracks  of  the  pavement  as  they  talked  together,  one  of  whom  said  to  the 
other  when  they  first  passed  me,  that  “ Jaggers  would  do  it  if  it  was  to  be  done.” 
There  was  a knot  of  three  men  and  two  women  standing  at  a comer,  and  one  of 
the  women  was  crying  on  her  dirty  shawl,  and  the  other  comforted  her  by  saying, 
as  she  pulled  her  own  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  “ Jiggers  is  for  him,  ’Melia,  and 
what  more  could  you  have  ?”  There  was  a red-eyed  little  Jew  who  came  into  the 
Close  while  I was  loitering  there,  in  company  with  a second  little  Jew  whom  he 
sent  upon  an  errand  ; and  while  the  messenger  was  gone,  I remarked  this  Jew, 
who  was  of  a highly  excitable  temperament,  performing  a jig  of  anxiety  under  a 
lamp-post,  and  accompanying  himself,  in  a kind  of  frenzy,  with  the  words,  “ Oh 
Jaggerth,  Jaggerth,  Jaggerth  ! all  otherth  ith  Cag-Maggerth,  give  me  Jag 
gerth!”  These  testimonies  to  the  popularity  of  my  guardian  made  a deep  im- 
pression on  me,  and  I admired  and  wondered  more  than  ever. 

At  length,  as  I was  looking  out  at  the  iron  gate  of  Bartholomew  Close  into 
Little  Britain,  I saw  Mr.  Jaggers  coming  across  the  road  towards  me.  All  the 
others  who  were  waiting,  saw  him  at  the  same  time,  and  there  was  quite  a rush  at 
him.  Mr.  Jaggers,  putting  a hand  on  my  shoulder  and  walking  me  on  at  his  side 
without  saying  anything  tc  me,  addressed  himself  to  his  followers. 

First,  he  took  the  two  secret  men. 

“ Now,  I have  nothing  to  say  to  you”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  throwing  his  finger  at 
them.  “ I want  to  know  no  more  than  I know.  As  to  the  result,  it’s  a toss-up. 
I told  you  from  the  first  it  was  a toss-up.  Have  you  paid  Wemmick  : ” 

We  made  the  money  up  this  morning,  sir,”  said  one  of  the  men,  submissively, 
wldle  the  other  perused  'Mr.  Jaggers’s  face. 

' • I don’t  ask  you  when  you  made  it  up,  or  where,  or  whether  you  made  it  up 
ill.  Has  Wemmick  got  it  ? ” 

" Yes,  sir,”  said  both  the  men  together. 


Great  Expectations. 


3*^ 

“ Very  well ; then  you  may  go.  Now,  I won’t  have  it !”  said  Mr.  Jaggers, 
waving  his  hand  at  them  to  put  them  behind  him.  “ If  you  say  a word  to  me,  I’ll 
throw  up  the  case.” 

“We  thought,  Mr.  Jaggers ” one  of  the  men  began,  pulling  off  his  hat. 

“ That’s  what  I told  you  not  to  do,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ You  thought!  I 
think  for  you  ; that’s  enough  for  you.  If  I want  you,  I know  where  to  find  you  ; 
I don’t  want  you  to  find  me.  Now  I won’t  have  it.  I won’t  hear  a word.” 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  as  Mr.  Jaggers  waved  them  behind  again, 
and  humbly  fell  back  and  were  heard  no  more. 

“And  now  you  ! ” said  Mr.  Jaggers,  suddenly  stopping,  and  turning  on  the 
two  women  with  the  shawls,  from  whom  the  three  men  had  meekly  separated — 
“ Oh  ! Amelia,  is  it  ?” 

“ Yes,  Mr.  Jaggers.” 

“ And  do  you  remember,”  retorted  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ that  but  for  me  you  wouldn’t 
be  here  and  couldn’t  be  here  ?” 

“Oh  yes,  sir!”  exclaimed  both  women  together.  “Lord  bless  you,  sir,  well 
we  knows  that !” 

“ Then  why,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ do  you  come  here  ?” 

“ My  Bill,  sir!”  the  crying  woman  pleaded. 

“Now,  I tell  you  what!”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “Once  for  all.  If  you  don't 
know  that  your  Bill’s  iif  good  hands,  I know  it.  And  if  you  come  here,  bothering 
about  your  Bill,  I’ll  make  an  example  of  both  your  Bill  and  you,  and  let  him  slip 
through  my  fingers.  Have  you  paid  Wemmick  ?” 

“ Oh  yes,  sir  ! Every7  farden.” 

“ Very  well.  Then  you  have  done  all  you  have  got  to  do.  Say  another  word 
- — one  single  word — and  Wemmick  shall  give  you  your  money  back.” 

This  terrible  threat  caused  the  two  women  to  fall  off  immediately.  No  one 
remained  now  but  the  excitable  Jew,  who  had  already  raised  the  skirts  of 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  coat  to  his  lips  several  times. 

“ I don’t  know  this  man  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  in  the  most  devastating  strain. 
“ What  does  this  fellow  want  ?” 

“ Ma  thear  Mithter  Jaggerth.  Hown  brother  to  Habraham  Latharuth  ?” 

“ Who’s  he  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ Let  go  of  my  coat.” 

The  suitor,  kissing  the  hem  of  the  garment  again  before  relinquishing  it,  re- 
plied, “ Habraham  Latharuth,  on  thuthpithion  of  plate.” 

“ You’re  too  late,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ I am  over  the  way.” 

“ Holy  father,  Mithter  Jaggerth  ! ” cried  my  excitable  acquaintance,  turning 
white,  “ don’t  thay  you’re  again  Habraham  Latharuth  ! ” 

“ I am,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ and  there’s  an  end  of  it.  Get  out  of  the  way.” 

“ Mithter  Jaggerth  ! Half  a moment!.  My  hown  cuthen’th  gone  to  Mithter 
Wemmick  at  thitli  prethenth  minute  to  hoffer  him  hany  termth.  Mithter  Jaggerth ! 
Half  a quarter  of  a moment ! If  you’d  have  the  condethenthun  to  be  bought  off 
from  the  t’other  thide — at  any  thuperior  prithe  ! — money  no  object ! — Mithter  Jag- 
gerth—Mithter ! ” 

My  guardian  threw  his  supplicant  off  with  supreme  indifference,  and  left  him 
dancing  on  the  pavement  as  if  it  were  red-hot.  Without  further  interruption,  we 
reached  the  front  office,  where  we  found  the  clerk  and  the  man  in  velveteen  with 
the  fur  cap. 

“Here’s  Mike,”  said  the  clerk,  getting  down  from  his  stool,  and  approaching 
Mr.  Jaggers  confidentially. 

“ Oh  !”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  turning  to  the  man  who  was  pulling  a lock  of  hair  in 
the  middle  uf  his  forehead,,  like  the  Bull  in  Cock  Robin  pulling  ai  the  bell-rope ; 
**  your  man  comes  on  this  afternoon.  Well  ?” 


d2 1 


Ms  Guardian  and  bis  Clerk . 

“ Wei1,,  Mas’r  Jaggers,”  returned  Mike,  in  the  voice  of  a sufferer  from  a consti- 
tutional cold  ; “ alter  a deal  o’  trouble,  I’ve  found  one,  sir,  as  might  do,” 

“ What  is  he  prepared  to  swear  ? ” 

“ Well,  Mas’r  Jaggers,”  said  Mike,  wiping  his  nose  on  his  fur  cap  this  time  ; 
“in  a general  way,  anythink.” 

Mr.  Jaggers  suddenly  became  most  irate.  “Now,  I warned  you  before,”  said 
he,  throwing  his  forefinger  at  the  terrified  client,  “ that  if  ever  you  presumed  to 
talk  in  that  way  here,  I’d  make  an  example  of  you.  You  infernal  scoundrel,  how 
dare  you  tell  me  that  ?” 

The  client  looked  scared,  but  bewildered  too,  as  if  he  were  unconscious  what  he 

had  done. 

“ Spooney  !”  said  the  clerk,  in  a low  voice,  giving  him  a stir  with  his  elbow. 
“ Soft  Head  ! Need  you  say  it  face  to  face  ?” 

“Now,  I ask  you,  you  blundering  booby,”  said  my  guardian,  very  sternly, 
“ once  more  and  for  the  last  time,  what  the  man  you  have  brought  here  is  prepared 
to  swear  ?” 

Mike  looked  hard  at  my  guardian,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  learn  a lesson  from 
his  face,  and  slowly  replied,  “ Ayther  to  character,  or  to  having  been  in  his  com- 
pany and  never  left  him  all  the  night  in  question.” 

“ Now,  be  careful.  In  what  station  of  life  is  this  man  ?” 

Mike  looked  at  his  cap,  and  looked  at  the  floor,  and  looked  at  the  ceiling,  and 
looked  at  the  clerk,  and  even  looked  at  me,  before  beginning  to  reply  in  a nervous 

manner,  “We’ve  dressed  him  up  like ” when  my  guardian  blustered  out: 

“ What  ? You  will,  will  you  ?” 

(“  Spooney!”  added  the  clerk  again,  with  another  stir.) 

After  some  helpless  casting  about,  Mike  brightened  and  began  again  : 

“ He  is  dressed  like  a ’spectable  pieman.  A sort  of  a pastry-cook.” 

“ Is  he  here  ?”  asked  my  guardian. 

“ I left  him,”  said  Mike,  “ a setting  on  some  doorsteps  round  the  corner.” 
“Take  him  past  that  window,  and  let  me  see  him.” 

The  window  indicated,  was  the  office  window.  We  all  three  went  to  it,  behind 
the  wire  blind,  and  presently  saw  the  client  go  by  in  an  accidental  manner,  with  a 
murderous-looking  tall  individual,  in  a short  suit  of  white  linen  and  a paper  cap. 
This  guileless  confectioner  was  not  by  any  means  sober,  and  had  a black  eye  in 
the  green  stage  of  recovery,  which  was  painted  over. 

“ Tell  him  to  take  his  witness  away  directly,”  said  my  guardian  to  the  clerk,  in 
extreme  disgust,  “ and  ask  him  what  he  means  by  bringing  such  a fellow  as 
that.” 

My  guardian  then  took  me  into  his  own  room,  and  while  he  lunched,  standing, 
from  a sandwich-box  and  a pocket  flask  of  sherry  (he  seemed  to  bully  his  very 
sandwich  as  he  ate  it),  informed  me  what  arrangements  he  had  made  for  me.  I 
was  to  go  to  “Barnard’s  Inn,”  to  young  Mr.  Pocket’s  rooms,  where  a bed  had 
been  sent  in  for  my  accommodation  ; I was  to  remain  with  young  Mr.  Pocket 
until  Monday ; on  Monday  I was  to  go  with  him  to  his  father’s  house  on  a visit, 
that  I might  try  how  I liked  it.  Also,  I was  told  what  my  allowance  was  to  be — 
it  was  a very  liberal  one — and  had  handed  to  me  from  one  of  my  guardian’s 
drawers,  the  cards  of  certain  tradesmen  with  whom  I was  to  deal  for  all  kinds  of 
clothes,  and  such  other  things  as  I could  in  reason  want.  “You  will  find  your 
credit  good,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  my  guardian,  whose  flask  of  sherry  smelt  like  a whole 
cask-full,  as  he  hastily  refreshed  himself,  “but  I shall  by  this  means  be  able  to 
check  your  bills,  and  to  pull  you  up  if  I find  you  outrunning  the  constable.  Of 
course  you’ll  go  wrong  somehow,  but  that’s  no  fault  of  mine.” 

After  I had  pondered  a little  over  this  encouraging  sentiment,  I asked  Mr 

y 


322 


Great  Expectations . 


Jaggers  if  I could  send  for  a coach  ? He  said  it  was  not  worth  while,  I was  sd 
near  my  destination  ; Wemmick  should  walk  round  with  me,  if  I pleased. 

I then  found  that  Wemmick  was  the  clerk  in  the  next  room.  Another  clerk 
was  rung  down  from  up-stairs  to  take  his  place  while  he  was  out,  and  I accom- 
panied him  into  the  street,  after  shaking  hands  with  my  guardian.  We  found  a 
new  set  of  people  lingering  outside,  but  Wemmick  made  a wTay  among  them  by 
saying  coolly  yet  decisively,  “ I tell  you  it’s  no  use  ; he  won’t  have  a word  to  say 
to  one  of  you ; ” and  we  soon  got  clear  of  them,  and  went  on  side  by  side. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

CASTING  my  eyes  on  Mr.  Wemmick  as  we  went  along,  to  see  what  he  was  like  in 
the  light  of  day,  I found  him  to  be  a dry  man,  rather  short  in  stature,  with  a square 
wooden  face,  whose  expression  seemed  to  have  been  imperfectly  chipped  out  with 
a dull-edged  chisel.  There  were  some  marks  in  it  that  might  have  been  dimples,  if 
the  material  had  Den  softer  and  the  instrument  finer,  but  which,  as  it  was,  were  only 
dints.  The  chisei  had  made  three  or  four  of  these  attempts  at  embellishment  over 
his  nose,  but  had  given  them  up  without  an  effort  to  smooth  them  off.  .1  judged 
him  to  be  a bachelor  from  the  frayed  condition  of  his  linen,  and  he  appeared  to 
have  sustained  a good  many  bereavements  ; for  he  wore  at  least  four  mourning 
rings,  besides  a brooch  representing  a lady  and  a weeping  willow  at  a tomb  with 
an  urn  on  it.  I noticed,  too,  that  several  rings  and  seals  hung  at  his  watch  chain, 
as  if  he  were  quite  laden  with  remembrances  of  departed  friends.  He  had  glitter- 
ing eyes — small,  keen,  and  black — and  thin  wide  mottled  lips.  He  had  had  them, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  from  forty  to  fifty  years. 

“ So  you  were  never  in  London  before  ?”  said  Mr.  Wemmick  to  me. 

“ No,”  said  I. 

“ / was  new  here  once,”  said  Mr.  Wemmick.  “ Rum  to  think  of  now !” 

“ You  are  well  acquainted  with  it  now  ?” 

“ Why,  yes,”  said  Mr.  Wemmick.  “ I know  the  moves  of  it.” 

“ Is  it  a very  wicked  place  ?”  I asked,  more  for  the  sake  of  saying  something 
than  for  information. 

“ You  may  get  cheated,  robbed,  and  murdered,  in  London.  But  there  are  plenty 
of  people  anywhere,  who’ll  do  that  for  you.” 

“ If  there  is  bad  blood  between  you  and  them,”  said  I,  to  soften  it  off  a little. 

“ Oh  ! I don’t  know  about  bad  blood,”  returned  Mr.  Wemmick.  “ There’s  not 
much  bad  blood  about.  They’ll  do  it,  if  there’s  anything  to  be  got  by  it.” 

“That  makes  it  worse.” 

“ You  think  so  ?”  returned  Mr.  Wemmick.  “ Much  about  the  same,  I should 
say.” 

He  wore  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  looked  straight  before  him  : walk- 
ing in  a self-contained  way  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  the  streets  to  claim  his 
attention.  His  mouth  was  such  a post-office  of  a mouth  that  he  had  a mechanical 
appearance  of  smiling.  We  had  got  to  the  top  of  Holborn  Hill  before  I knew  that 
it  was  merely  a mechanical  appearance,  and  that  he  was  not  smiling  at  all. 

“ Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Matthew  Pocket  lives  ?”  I asked  Mr.  Wemmick. 
“Yes,”  said  he,  nodding  in  the  direction.  “At  Hammersmith,  west  01 
London.” 

“ Is  that  far  ?” 

“ Well ! Say  five  miles.” 


Barnard' s Inn . 


323 

il  Do  you  know  him  ?” 

“ Why,  you  are  a regular  cross-examiner ! ” said  Mr.  Wemmick,  looking  at  me 
With  an  approving  air.  “ Yes,  I know  him.  / know  him  ! ” 

There  was  an  air  of  toleration  or  depreciation  about  his  utterance  of  these  words, 
that  rather  depressed  me  ; and  I was  still  looking  sideways  at  his  block  of  a face 
in  search  of  any  encouraging  note  to  the  text,  when  he  said  here  we  were  at 
Barnard’s  Inn.  My  depression  was  not  alleviated  by  the  announcement,  for,  I had 
supposed  that  establishment  to  be  an  hotel  kept  by  Mr.  Barnard,  to  which  the 
Blue  Boar  in  our  town  was  a mere  public-house.  Whereas  I now  found  Barnard 
to  be  a disembodied  spirit,  or  a fiction,  and  his  inn  the  dingiest  collection  of  shabby 
buildings  ever  squeezed  together  in  a rank  corner  as  a club  for  Tom-cats. 

We  entered  this  haven  through  a wicket-gate,  and  were  disgorged  by  an  intro- 
ductory passage  into  a melancholy  little  square  that  looked  to  me  like  a flat 
burying-ground.  I thought  it  had  the  most  dismal  trees  in  it,  and  the  most  dismal 
sparrows,  and  the  most  dismal  cats,  and  the  most  dismal  houses  (in  number  half  a 
dozen  or  so),  that  I had  ever  seen.  I thought  the  windows  of  the  sets  of  chambers 
into  which  those  houses  were  divided,  were  in  every  stage  of  dilapidated  blind  and 
curtain,  crippled  flower-pot,  cracked  glass,  dusty  decay,  and  miserable  makeshift ; 
while  To  Let  To  Let  To  Let,  glared  at  me  from  empty  rooms,  as  if  no  new 
wretches  ever  came  there,  and  the  vengeance  of  the  soul  of  Barnard  were  being 
slowly  appeased  by  the  gradual  suicide  of  the  present  occupants  and  their  unholy 
interment  under  the  gravel.  A frouzy  mourning  of  soot  and  smoke  attired  this 
forlorn  creation  of  Barnard,  and  it  had  strewed  ashes  on  its  head,  and  was  under- 
going penance  and  humiliation  as  a mere  dust-hole.  Thus  far  my  sense  of  sight ; 
while  dry  rot  and  wet  rot  and  all  the  silent  rots  that  rot  in  neglected  roof  and 
cellar — rot  of  rat  and  mouse  and  bug  and  coaching-stables  near  at  hand  besides — 
addressed  themselves  faintly  to  my  sense  of  smell,  and  moaned,  “ Try  Barnard’s 
Mixture.” 

So  imperfect  was  this  realisation  of  the  first  of  my  great  expectations,  that  I 
looked  in  dismay  at  Mr.  Wemmick.  “Ah!”  said  he,  mistaking  me;  “the 
retirement  reminds  you  of  the  country.  So  it  does  me.” 

He  led  me  into  a corner  and  conducted  me  up  a flight  of  stairs — which  appeared 
to  me  to  be  slowly  collapsing  into  sawdust,  so  that  one  of  those  days  the  upper 
lodgers  would  look  out  at  their  doors  and  find  themselves  without  the  means  of 
coming  down — to  a set  of  chambers  on  the  top  floor.  Mr.  Pocket,  Jun.,  was 
painted  on  the  door,  and  there  was  a label  on  the  letter-box,  “ Return  shortly.” 

“ He  hardly  thought  you’d  come  so  soon,”  Mr.  Wemmick  explained.  “ You 
don’t  want  me  any  more  ?” 

“No,  thank  you,”  said  I. 

“ As  I keep  the  cash,”  Mr.  Wemmick  observed,  “we  shall  most  likely  meet 
pretty  often.  Good  day.” 

“ Good  day.” 

I put  out  my  hand,  and  Mr.  Wemmick  at  first  looked  at  it  as  if  he  thought  I 
wanted  something.  Then  he  looked  at  me,  and  said,  correcting  himself, 

“ To  be  sure ! Yes.  You’re  in  the  habit  of  shaking  hands  ?” 

I was  rather  confused,  thinking  it  must  be  out  of  the  London  fashion,  bu4 
said  yes. 

“I  have  got  so  out  of  it!”  said  Mr.  Wemmick — “except  at  last.  Very  glad, 
I’m  sure,  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Good  day  ! ” 

When  we  had  shaken  hands  and  he  was  gone,  I opened  the  staircase  window 
and  had  nearly  beheaded  myself,  for,  the  lines  had  rotted  away,  and  it  came  down 
like  the  guillotine.  Happily  it  was  so  quick  that  I had  not  put  my  head  out. 
After  this  escape,  I was  content  to  take  a foggy  view  of  the  Irn  through  the 


324 


Great  Expectations . 


window’s  encrusting  dirt,  and  to  stand  dolefully  looking  out,  saying  to  myself  that 
London  was  decidedly  overrated. 

Mr.  Pocket,  Junior’s,  idea  of  Shortly  was  not  mine,  for  t had  nearly  maddened 
myself  with  looking  out  for  half  an  hour,  and  had  written  my  name  with  my  fingei 
several  times  in  the  dirt  of  every  pane  in  the  window,  before  I heard  footsteps  on 
the  stairs.  Gradually  there  arose  before  me  the  hat,  head,  neckcloth,  waistcoat, 
trousers,  boots,  of  a member  of  society  of  about  my  own  standing.  He  had  a 
paper-bag  under  each  arm  and  a pottle  of  strawberries  in  one  hand,  and  was  out 
c f breath. 

“ Mr.  Pip  ?”  said  he. 

“ Mr.  Pocket  ?”  said  I. 

“ Dear  me!”  he  exclaimed.  “I  am  extremely  sorry ; but  I knew  there  was  a 
coach  from  your  part  of  the  country  at  midday,  and  I thought  you  would  come  by 
that  one.  The  fact  is,  I have  been  out  on  your  account — not  that  that  is  any 
excuse — for  I thought,  coming  from  the  country,  you  might  like  a little  fruit  after 
dinner,  and  I went  to  Covent  Garden  Market  to  get  it  good.” 

For  a reason  that  I had,  I felt  as  if  my  eyes  would  start  out  of  my  head.  I 
acknowledged  his  attention  incoherently,  and  began  to  think  this  was  a dream. 

“ Dear  me ! ” said  Mr.  Pocket,  Junior.  “ This  door  sticks  so  ! ” 

As  he  was  fast  making  jam  of  his  fruit  by  wrestling  with  the  door  while  the  paper- 
bags  were  under  his  arms,  I begged  him  to  allow  me  to  hold  them.  He  relin- 
quished them  with  an  agreeable  smile,  and  combated  with  the  door  as  if  it  were  a 
wild  beast.  It  yielded  so  suddenly  at  last,  that  he  staggered  back  upon  me,  and  I 
staggered  back  upon  the  opposite  door,  and  we  both  laughed.  But  still  I felt  as 
if  my  eyes  must  start  out  of  my  head,  and  as  if  this  must  be  a dream. 

“ Pray  come  in,”  said  Mr.  Pocket,  Junior.  “ Allow  me  to  lead  the  way.  I am 
rather  bare  here,  but  I hope  you’ll  be  able  to  make  out  tolerably  well  till  Monday. 
My  father  thought  you  would  get  on  more  agreeably  through  to-morrow  with  me 
than  with  him,  and  might  like  to  take  a walk  about  London.  I am  sure  I shall 
be  very  happy  to  show  London  to  you.  As  to  our  table,  you  won’t  find  that  bad, 
I hope,  for  it  will  be  supplied  from  our  coffee-house  here,  and  (it  is  only  right  I 
should  add)  at  your  expense,  such  being  Mr.  Jaggers’s  diiections.  As  to  our 
lodging,  it’s  not  by  any  means  splendid,  because  I have  my  own  bread  to  earn, 
and  my  father  hasn’t  anything  to  give  me,  and  I shouldn’t  be  willing  to  take  it,  ii 
he  had.  This  is  our  sitting-room — just  such  chairs  and  tables  and  carpet  and  so 
forth,  you  see,  as  they  could  spare  from  home.  You  mustn’t  give  me  credit  for 
the  tablecloth  and  spoons  and  castors,  because  they  come  for  you  from  the  coffee- 
house. This  is  my  little  bedroom  ; rather  musty,  but  Barnard’s  is  musty.  This 
is  your  bedroom  ; the  furniture ’s  hired  for  the  occasion,  but  I trust  it  will  answer 
the  purpose;  if  you  should  want  anything,  I’ll  go  and  fetch  it.  The  chambers  are 
retii -id,  and  we  shall  be  alone  together,  but  we  shan’t  fight,  I daresay.  But,  dear 
me,  I beg  your  pardon,  you’re  holding  the  fruit  all  this  time.  Pray  let  me  take 
thes  * bags  from  you.  I am  quite  ashamed.” 

A s I stood  opposite  to  Mr.  Pocket,  Junior,  delivering  him  the  bags,  One,  Two, 

I sa  v the  starting  appearance  come  into  his  own  eyes  that  I knew  to  be  in  mine* 
ind  he  said,  falling  back  : 

Lord  bless  me,  you’re  the  prowling  boy !” 

And  you/  said  I,  “ are  the  pale  young  gentleman  !#t 


3*5 


Hsrbtrt  and  I exchange  confidences . 

, ~ — . — *- 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  pale  young  gentleman  and  I stood  contemplating  one  another  in  Barnard’s 
Inn,  until  we  both  burst  out  laughing.  “The  idea  of  its  being  you  !”  said  he. 
“The  idea  of  its  being  you!”  said  I.  And  then  we  contemplated  one  anothei 
afresh,  and  laughed  again.  “Well!”  said  the  pale  young  gentleman,  reaching 
out  his  hand  good-humouredly,  “it’s  all  over  now,  I hope,  and  it  will  be  mag- 
nanimous in  you  if  you’ll  forgive  me  for  having  knocked  you  about  so.” 

I derived  from  this  speech  that  Mr.  Herbert  Pocket  (for  Herbert  was  the  pale 
young  gentleman’s  name)  still  rather  confounded  his  intention  with  his  execution. 
But  I made  a modest  reply,  and  we  shook  hands  warmly. 

“ You  hadn’t  come  into  your  good  fortune  at  that  time  ?”  said  Herbert  Pocket. 
“ No,”  said  I. 

“ No,”  he  acquiesced  : “ I heard  it  had  happened  very  lately.  / was  rather  on 
the  look-out  for  good-fortune  then.” 

“ Indeed  ?” 

“ Yes.  Miss  Havisham  had  sent  for  me,  to  see  if  she  could  take  a fancy  to  me. 
But  she  couldn’t — at  all  events,  she  didn’t.” 

I thought  it  polite  to  remark  that  I was  surprised  to  hear  that. 

“ Bad  taste,”  said  Herbert,  laughing,  “ but  a fact.  Yes,  she  had  sent  for  me  on 
a trial  visit,  and  if  I had  come  out  of  it  successfully,  I suppose  I should  have  been 
provided  for ; perhaps  I should  have  been  what-you-may-called  it  to  Estella.” 

“ What’s  that  ?”  I asked,  with  sudden  gravity. 

He  was  arranging  his  fruit  in  plates  while  we  talked,  which  divided  his  atten- 
tion, and  was  the  cause  of  his  having  made  this  lapse  of  a word.  “Affianced,” 
he  explained,  still  busy  with  the  fruit.  “ Betrothed.  Engaged.  What’s-his- 
named.  Any  word  of  that  sort.” 

“ How  did  you  bear  your  disappointment  ?”  I asked. 

“ Pooh  !”  said  he,  “ I didn’t  care  much  for  it.  She’s  a Tartar.” 

“ Miss  Havisham  ?” 

“ I don’t  say  no  to  that,  but  I meant  Estella.  That  girl’s  hard  and  haughty 
and  capricious  to  the  last  degree,  and  has  been  brought  up  by  Miss  Havisham  to 
wreak  revenge  on  all  the  male  sex.” 

“ What  relation  is  she  to  Miss  Havisham  ?” 

“ None,”  said  he.  “ Only  adopted.” 

“ Why  should  she  wreak  revenge  on  all  the  male  sex  ? What  revenge  ?" 

“ Lord,  Mr.  Pip  !”  said  he.  “ Don’t  you  know  ?” 

“ No,”  said  I. 

“ Dear  me  ! It’s  quite  a story,  and  shall  be  saved  till  dinner-time.  And  now 
let  me  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  a question.  How  did  you  come  there,  that  day  ?” 
I told  him,  and  he  was  attentive  until  I had  finished,  and  then  burst  out  laugh- 
ing again,  and  asked  me  if  I was  sore  afterwards  ? I didn’t  ask  him  if  he  was, 
for  my  conviction  on  that  point  was  perfectly  established. 

“ Mr.  Jaggers  is  your  guardian,  I understand  ?”  he  went  on. 

“Yes.” 

“You  know  he  is  Miss  Havisham’s  man  of  business  and  solicitor,  and  has  hc« 
confidence  when  nobody  else  has  ?” 

This  was  bringing  me  (1  felt)  towards  dangerous  ground.  I answered  with  a 
constraint  1 made  no  attempt  to  disguise,  that  I had  seen  Mr.  Jaggers  in  Miss 
Havisham’s  house  on  the  very  day  of  our  combat,  but  never  at  any  other  time,  aod 
that  I believed  he  had  no  recollection  of  having  ever  seen  me  there. 


326 


Greet  Expectations. 


“ He  was  so  obliging  as  to  suggest  my  father  for  your  tutor,  and  he  called  on  my 
fathei  to  propose  it.  Of  course  he  knew  about  my  father  from  his  connexion 
with  Miss  Havisham.  My  father  is  Miss  Havisham’s  cousin ; not  that  tha* 
implies  familiar  intercourse  between  them,  for  he  is  a bad  courtier  and  will  not 
propitiate  her.’, 

Herbert  Pocket  had  a frank  and  easy  way  with  him  that  was  very  taking.  1 
had  never  seen  any  one  then,  and  I have  never  seen  any  one  since,  who  more 
strongly  expressed  to  me,  in  every  look  and  tone,  a natural  incapacity  to  do  any- 
thing secret  and  mean.  There  was  something  wonderfully  hopeful  about  his 
general  air,  and  something  that  at  the  same  time  whispered  to  me  he  would  never 
be  very  successful  or  rich.  I don’t  know  how  this  was.  I became  imbued  with 
the  notion  on  that  first  occasion  before  we  sat  down  to  dinner,  but  I cannot  define 
by  what  means. 

He  was  still  a pale  young  gentleman,  and  had  a certain  conquered  languor  about 
him  in  the  midst  of  his  spirits  and  briskness,  that  did  not  seem  indicative  of 
natural  strength.  He  had  not  a handsome  face,  but  it  was  better  than  handsome  : 
being  extremely  amiable  and  cheerful.  His  figure  was  a little  ungainly,  as  in  the 
days  when  my  knuckles  had  taken  such  liberties  with  it,  but  it  looked  as  if  it  would 
always  be  light  and  young.  Whether  Mr.  Trabb’s  local  work  would  have  sat 
more  gracefully  on  him  than  on  me,  may  be  a question ; but  I am  conscious  that 
he  carried  off  his  rather  old  clothes,  much  better  than  I carried  off  my  new  suit. 

As  he  was  so  communicative,  I felt  that  reserve  on  my  part  would  be  a bad 
return  unsuited  to  our  years.  I therefore  told  him  my  small  story,  and  laid  stress 
on  my  being  forbidden  to  inquire  who  my  benefactor  was.  I further  mentioned 
that  as  I had  been  brought  up  a blacksmith  in  a country  place,  and  knew  very 
little  of  the  ways  of  politeness,  I would  take  it  as  a great  kindness  in  him  if  he 
would  give  me  a hint  whenever  he  saw  me  at  a loss  or  going  wrong. 

“ With  pleasure,”  said  he,  “ though  I venture  to  prophesy  that  you’ll  want  very 
few  hints.  I dare  say  we  shall  be  often  together,  and  I should  like  to  banish  any 
needless  restraint  between  us.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  begin  at  once  to  call 
me  by  my  Christian  name,  Herbert  ?” 

I thanked  him,  and  said  I would.  I informed  him  in  exchange  that  my  Chris- 
tian name  was  Philip. 

“I  don’t  take  to  Philip,”  said  he,  smiling,  “ for  it  sounds  like  a moral  boy  out 
of  the  spelling-book,  who  was  so  lazy  that  he  fell  into  a pond,  or  so  fat  that 
he  couldn’t  see  out  of  his  eyes,  or  so  avaricious  that  he  locked  up  his  cake 
dll  the  mice  ate  it,  or  so  determined  to  go  a bird’s-nesting  that  he  got  himself 
eaten  by  bears  who  lived  handy  in  the  neighbourhood.  I tell  you  what  I should 
like.  We  are  so  harmonious,  and  you  have  been  a blacksmith — would  you 
mind  it  ?” 

“ I shouldn’t  mind  anything  that  you  propose,”  I answered,  “ but  I don’t  under- 
stand you.” 

“ Would  you  mind  Handel  for  a familiar  name  ? There’s  a charming  piece  of 
music  by  Handel,  called  the  Harmonious  Blacksmith.” 

“ I should  like  it  very  much.” 

“ Then,  my  dear  Handel,”  said  he,  turning  round  as  the  door  opened,  “ here  is 
the  dinner,  and  I must  beg  of  you  to  take  the  top  of  the  table,  because  the  dinner 
is  of  your  providing.” 

This  I would  not  hear  of,  so  he  took  the  top,  and  I faced  him.  It  was  a nice 
little  dinner — seemed  to  me  then,  a very  Lord  Mayor’s  Feast — and  it  acquired  ad- 
ditional relish  from  being  eaten  under  those  independent  circumstances,  with  no 
old  people  by,  and  with  London  all  around  us.  This  again  was  heightened  by  a 
certain  gipsy  sharanter  that  set  the  banquet  off ; for,  while  the  table  was,  as  Mr, 


Herbert  tells  me  Miss  Ravish  am  s Story.  327 

Pumblechook  might  have  said,  the  lap  of  luxury — being  entirely  furnished  forth 
from  the  coffee-house — the  circumjacent  region  of  sitting-room  was  of  a compara- 
tively pastm-eiess  and  shifty  character  : imposing  on  the  waiter  the  wandering 
habits  of  putting  the  covers  on  the  floor  (where  he  fell  over  them),  the  melted 
butter  in  the  armchair,  the  bread  on  the  bookshelves,  the  cheese  in  the  coalscuttle, 
and  the  boiled  fowl  into  my  bed  in  the  next  room — where  I found  much  of  its 
parsley  and  butter  in  a state  of  congelation  when  I retired  for  the  night.  All  this 
made  the  feast  delightful,  and  when  the  waiter  was  not  there  to  watch  me,  my 
pleasure  was  without  alloy. 

We  had  made  some  progress  in  the  dinner,  when  I reminded  Herbert  of  his 
promise  to  tell  me  about  Miss  Havisham. 

“True,”  he  replied.  “I’ll  redeem  it  at  once.  Let  me  introduce  the  topic, 
Handel,  by  mentioning  that  in  London  it  is  not  the  custom  to  put  the  knife  in  the 
rnouth — for  fear  of  accidents — and  that  while  the  fork  is  reserved  for  that  use,  it  is 
not  put  further  in  than  necessary.  It  is  scarcely  worth  mentioning,  only  it’s  as 
well  to  do  as  other  people  do.  Also,  the  spoon  is  not  generally  used  over-hand, 
but  under.  This  has  two  advantages.  You  get  at  your  mouth  better  (which  after 
all  is  the  object),  and  you  save  a good  deal  of  the  attitude  of  opening  oysters,  on 
the  part  of  the  right  elbow.” 

He  offered  these  friendly  suggestions  in  such  a lively  way,  that  we  both  laughed 
and  I scarcely  blushed. 

“ Now,”  he  pursued,  “ concerning  Miss  Havisham.  Miss  Havisham,  you  must 
know,  was  a spoilt  child.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  a baby,  and  her  father 
denied  her  nothing.  Her  father  was  a country  gentleman  down  in  your  part  of  the 
world,  and  was  a brewer.  I don’t  know  why  it  should  be  a crack  thing  to  be  a 
brewer  ; but  it  is  indisputable  that  while  you  cannot  possibly  be  genteel  and  bake, 
you  may  be  as  genteel  as  never  was  and  brew.  You  see  it  every  day.” 

“ Yet  a gentleman  may  not  keep  a public-house  ; may  he  ?”  said  I. 

“Not  on  any  account,”  returned  Herbert;  “but  a public-house  may  keep  a 
gentleman.  Well ! Mr.  Plavisham  was  very  rich  and  very  proud.  So  was  his 
daughter.” 

“ Miss  Havisham  was  an  only  child  ?”  I hazarded. 

“ Stop  a moment,  I am  coming  to  that.  No,  she  was  not  an  only  child  ; she 
had  a half-brother.  Her  father  privately  married  again — his  cook,  I rather  think.” 

“ I thought  he  was  proud,”  said  I. 

“ My  good  Handel,  so  he  was.  He  married  his  second  wife  privately,  because 
he  was  proud,  and  in  course  of  time  she  died.  When  she  was  .dead,  I apprehend  he 
first  told  his  daughter  what  he  had  done,  and  then  the  son  became  a part  of  the 
family,  residing  in  the  house  you  are  acquainted  with.  As  the  son  grew  a young 
man,  he  turned  out  riotous,  extravagant,  undutiful — altogether  bad.  At  last  his 
father  disinherited  him  ; but  he  softened  when  he  was  dying,  and  left  him  well  off, 
though  not  nearly  so  well  off  as  Miss  Havisham. — Take  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  excuse  my  mentioning  that  society  as  a body  does  not  expect  one  to  be  so 
strictly  conscientious  in  emptying  one’s  glass,  as  to  turn  it  bottom  upwards  with 
the  rim  on  one’s  nose.” 

I had  been  doing  this,  in  an  excess  of  attention  to  his  recital.  I thanked  him, 
and  apologised.  He  said,  “Not  at  all,”  and  resumed. 

“ Miss  Havisham  was  now  an  heiress,  and  you  may  suppose  was  looked  after  as 
a great  match.  Her  half-brother  had  now  ample  means  again,  but  what  with 
debts  and  what  with  new  madness  wasted  them  most  fearfully  again.  There  were 
stronger  differences  between  him  and  her,  than  there  had  been  between  him  and 
his  fafher,  and  it  is  suspected  that  he  cherished  a deep  and  mortal  grudge  against 
her  as  having  influenced  the  father’s  anger.  Now,  I come  to  the  cruel  part  of  the 


* 28  Great  Expectations . 

story — merely  breaking  off,  my  dear  Handel,  to  remark  that  a dinner-napkin  wift 
not  go  into  a tumbler. ” 

Why  I was  trying  to  pack  mine  into  my  tumbler,  I am  wholly  unable  to  say.  I 
only  know  that  I found  myself,  with  a perseverance  worthy  of  a much  better  cause, 
making  the  most  strenuous  exertions  to  compress  it  within  those  limits.  Again 
I thanked  him  and  apologised,  and  again  he  said  in  the  cheerfullest  manner, 
“ Not  at  all,  I am  sure  !”  and  resumed. 

“ There  appeared  upon  the  scene — say  at  the  races,  or  the  public  balls,  or  any- 
where else  you  like — a certain  man,  who  made  love  to  Miss  Havisham.  I never 
saw  him  (for  this  happened  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  before  you  and  I were, 
Handel),  but  I have  heard  my  father  mention  that  he  was  a showy  man,  and  the 
kind  of  man  for  the  purpose.  But  that  he  was  not  to  be,  without  ignorance  or 
prejudice,  mistaken  for  a gentleman,  my  father  most  strongly  asseverates ; because 
it  is  a principle  of  his  that  no  man  who  was  not  a true  gentleman  at  heart,  ever 
was,  since  the  world  began,  a true  gentleman  in  manner.  He  says,  no  varnish  can 
hide  the  grain  of  the  wood  ; and  that  the  more  varnish  you  put  on,  the  more  the  grain 
will  express  itself.  Well ! This  man  pursued  Miss  Havisham  closely,  and  professed 
to  be  devoted  to  her.  I believe  she  had  not  shown  much  susceptibility  up  to  that 
time  ; but  all  the  susceptibility  she  possessed,  certainly  came  out  then,  and  she 
passionately  loved  him.  There  is  no  doubt  that  she  perfectly  idolized  him.  He 
practised  on  her  affection  in  that  systematic  way,  that  he  got  great  sums  of  money 
from  her,  and  he  induced  her  to  buy  her  brother  out  of  a share  in  the  brewery 
(which  had  been  weakly  left  him  by  his  father)  at  an  immense  price,  on  the  plea 
that  when  he  was  her  husband  he  must  hold  and  manage  it  all.  Your  guardian 
was  not  at  that  time  in  Miss  Havisham’s  councils,  and  she  was  too  haughty  and 
too  much  in  love,  to  be  advised  by  any  one.  Her  relations  were  poor  and  scheming, 
with  the  exception  of  my  father;  he  was  poor  enough,  but  not  time-serving  oi 
jealous.  The  only  independent  one  among  them,  he  warned  her  that  she  was 
doing  too  much  for  this  man,  and  was  placing  herself  too  unreservedly  in  his  power. 
She  took  the  first  opportunity  of  angrily  ordering  my  father  out  of  the  house,  in 
his  presence,  and  my  father  has  never  seen  her  since.” 

I thought  of  her  having  said,  “ Matthew  will  come  and  see  me  at  last  when  I 
am  laid  dead  upon  that  table;”  and  I asked  Herbert  whether  his  father  was  so 
inveterate  against  her  ? 

“ It’s  not  that,”  said  he,  “ but  she  charged  him,  in  the  presence  of  her  intended 
husband,  with  being  disappointed  in  the  hope  of  fawning  upon  her  for  his  own 
advancement,  and,  if  he  were  to  go  to  her  now,  it  would  look  true — even  to  him — 
and  even  to  her.  To  return  to  the  man  and  make  an  end  of  him.  The  marriage 
day  was  fixed,  the  wedding  dresses  were  bought,  the  wedding  tour  was  planned 
out,  the  wedding  guests  were  invited.  The  day  came,  but  not  the  bridegroom. 
He  wrrote  a letter ” 

“ Which  she  received,”  I struck  in,  “ when  she  was  dressing  for  her  marriage  ? 
At  twenty  minutes  to  nine  ?” 

“At  the  hour  and  minute,”  said  Herbert,  nodding,  “at  which  she  afterwards 
stopped  all  the  clocks.  What  was  in  it,  further  than  that  it  most  heartlessly  broke 
the  marriage  off,  I can’t  tell  you,  because  I don’t  know.  When  she  recovered 
from  a bad  illness  that  she  had,  she  laid  the  whole  place  waste,  as  you  have  seen 
it,  and  she  has  never  since  looked  upon  the  light  of  day.” 

“ Is  that  all  the  story  ?”  I asked,  after  considering  it. 

“ All  I know  of  it ; and  indeed  I only  know  so  much,  through  piecing  it  out 
ior  myself ; for  my  father  always  avoids  it,  and,  even  when  Miss  Havisham  invited 
me  *.j  go  there,  told  me  no  more  of  it  than  it  was  absolutely  requisite  I should  urn 
derstand.  But  I have  forgotten  one  thing.  It  has  been  supposed  tha/  the  man  ta 


Herbert' s Prospects  in  Life, 


3*9 

whom  she  guve  her  misplaced  confidence,  acted  throughout  in  toncert  with  hei 
half-brother ; that  it  was  a conspiracy  between  them ; and  that  they  shared  the 
profits.” 

“ I wonder  he  didn’t  marry  her  and  get  all  the  property,”  said  I. 

“ He  may  have  been  married  already,  and  her  cruel  mortification  may  have  been 
apart  of  her  half-brother’s  scheme,”  said  Herbert.  “ Mind  ! I don’t  know  that.” 

“ What  became  of  the  two  men  ?”  I asked,  after  again  considering  the  subject. 

“They  fell  into  deeper  shame  and  degradation — if -there  can  be  deeper — and 
ruin.” 

“ Are  they  alive  now  ?” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ You  said  just  now  that  Estella  was  not  related  to  Miss  Havisham,  but  adopted. 
When  adopted  ?” 

Herbert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ There  has  always  been  an  Estella,  since  I 
have  heard  of  a Miss  Havisham.  I know  no  more.  And  now,  Handel,”  said  he, 
finally  throwing  off  the  story  as  it  were,  “ there  is  a perfectly  open  understanding 
between  us.  All  I know  about  Miss  Havisham,  you  know.” 

“ And  all  I know,”  I retorted,  “ you  know.” 

“ I fully  believe  it.  So  there  can  be  no  competition  or  perplexity  between  you 
and  me.  And  as  to  the  condition  on  which  you  hold  your  advancement  in  life — • 
namely,  that  you  are  not  to  inquire  or  discuss  to  whom  you  owe  it-  -you  may  be 
very  sure  that  it  will  never  be  encroached  upon,  or  even  approached,  by  me,  or  by 
any  one  belonging  to  me.” 

In  truth,  he  said  this  with  so  much  delicacy,  that  I felt  the  subject  done  with, 
even  though  I should  be  under  his  father’s  roof  for  years  and  years  to  come.  Yet 
he  said  it  with  so  much  meaning,  too,  that  I felt  he  as  perfectly  understood  Miss 
Havisham  to  be  my  benefactress,  as  I understood  the  fact  myself. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  that  he  had  led  up  to  the  theme  for  the  pur- 

Eose  of  clearing  it  out  of  our  way  ; but  we  were  so  much  the  lighter  and  easier  for 
aving  broached  it,  that  I now  perceived  this  to  be  the  case.  We  were  very  gay 
and  sociable,  and  I asked  him,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  what  he  was  ? Pie 
replied,  “ A capitalist — an  Insurer  of  Ships.”  I suppose  he  saw  me  glancing 
about  the  room  in  search  of  some  tokens  of  Shipping,  or  capital,  for  lie  added, 
“ In  the  City.” 

I had  grand  ideas  of  the  wealth  and  importance  of  Insurers  of  Ships  in  the 
City,  and  1 began  to  think  with  awe,  of  having  laid  a young  Insurer  on  his  back, 
blackened  his  enterprising  eye,  and  cut  his  responsible  head  open.  But,  again, 
there  came  upon  me,  for  my  relief,  that  odd  impression  that  Herbert  Pocket  would 
never  be  very  successful  or  rich. 

“I  shall  not  rest  satisfied  with  merely  employing  my  capital  in  insuring  ships.  I 
shall  buy  up  some  good  Life  Assurance  shares,  and  cut  into  the  Direction.  I shall 
also  do  a little  in  the  mining  way.  None  of  these  things  will  interfere  with  my 
chartering  a few  thousand  tons  on  my  own  account.  I think  I shall  trade,”  said 
he,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  “ to  the  East  Indies,  for  silks,  shawls,  spices,  dyes, 
diugs,  and  precious  woods.  It’s  an  interesting  trade.” 

“And  the  profits  are  large  ?”  said  I. 

“Tremendous !”  said  he. 

I wavered  again,  and  began  to  think  here  were  greater  expectations  than  my 
own. 

“ I think  I shall  trade,  a Iso,”  said  he,  putting  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets* 
“ to  the  West  Indies,  for  sugar,  tobacco,  and  rum.  Also  to  Ceylon,  especially  foi 
elephants’  tusks.” 

“ You  will  want  a good  many  ships,”  said  I. 


33° 


Great  Expectations . 


“ A perfect  fleet,’'  said  he. 

Qui  te  overpowered  by  the  magnificence  of  these  transactions,  I asked  him  where 
ihe  ships  he  insured  mostly  traded  to  at  present  ? 

“ I haven’t  begun  insuring  yet,”  he  replied.  “ I am  looking  about  me.” 

Somehow,  that  pursuit  seemed  more  in  keeping  with  Barnard’s  Inn.  I said  on 
a tone  of  conviction),  “ Ah-h  !” 

“ Yes.  I am  in  a counting-house,  and  looking  about  me.” 

“ Is  a counting-house  profitable  ?”  I asked. 

“ To do  you  mean  to  the  young  fellow  who’s  in  it  ?”  he  asked,  in  reply. 

“ Yes  ; to  you.” 

“ Why,  n-no  ; not  to  me.”  He  said  this  with  the  air  of  one  carefully  reckoning 
up  and  striking  a balance.  “Not  directly  profitable.  That  is,  it  doesn’t  pay  me 
anything,  and  I have  to keep  myself.” 

This  certainly  had  not  a profitable  appearance,  and  I shook  my  head  as  if  I 
woul  1 imply  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  lay  by  much  accumulative  capital  from 
such  a source  of  income. 

“ But  the  thing  is,”  said  Herbert  Pocket,  “ that  you  look  about  you.  That's  the 
grand  thing.  You  are  in  a counting-house,  you  know,  and  you  look  about  you.” 

It  struck  me  as  a singular  implication  that  you  couldn’t  be  out  of  a counting- 
house,  you  know,  and  look  about  you ; but  I silently  deferred  to  his  experience. 

“ Then  the  time  comes,”  said  Herbert,  “ when  you  see  your  opening.  And  you 
go  in,  and  you  swoop  upon  it  and  you  make  your  capital,  and  then  there  you  are ! 
When  you  have  once  made  your  capital,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  employ  it.” 

This  was  very  like  his  way  of  conducting  that  encounter  in  the  garden  ; very 
like.  His  manner  of  bearing  his  poverty,  too,  exactly  corresponded  to  his  manner 
of  bearing  that  defeat.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  took  all  blows  and  buffets  now, 
with  just  the  same  air  as  he  had  taken  mine  then.  It  was  evident  that  he  had 
nothing  around  him  but  the  simplest  necessaries,  for  everything  that  I remarked 
upon  turned  out  to  have  been  sent  in  on  my  account  from  the  coffee-house  or 
somewhere  else. 

Yet,  having  already  made  his  fortune  in  his  own  mind,  he  was  so  unassuming 
with  it  that  I felt  quite  grateful  to  him  for  not  being  puffed  up.  It  was  a pleasant 
addition  to  his  naturally  pleasant  ways,  and  we  got  on  famously.  In  the  evening 
we  went  out  for  a walk  in  the  streets,  and  went  half-price  to  the  Theatre  ; and 
next  day  we  went  to  church  at  Westminster  Abbey,  and  in  the  afternoon  we 
walked  in  the  Parks ; and  I wondered  who  shod  all  the  horses  there,  and  wished 
Joe  did. 

On  a moderate  computation,  it  was  many  months,  that  Sunday,  since  I had  left 
Joe  and  Biddy.  The  space  interposed  between  myself  and  them,  partook  of  that 
expansion,  and  our  marshes  were  any  distance  off.  That  I could  have  been  at  our 
old  church  in  my  old  church-going  clothes,  on  the  very  last  Sunday  that  ever  was, 
seemed  a combination  of  impossibilities,  geographical  and  social,  solar  and  lunar. 
Yet  in  the  London  streets,  so  crowded  with  people  and  so  brilliantly  lighted  in  the 
dusk  of  evening,  there  were  depressing  hints  of  reproaches  for  that  I had  put  the  poor 
old  kitchen  at  home  so  far  away  ; and  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  footsteps  of  some 
incapable  impostor  of  a porter  mooning  about  Barnard’s  Inn,  under  pretence  of 
watching  it,  fell  hollow  on  my  heart. 

On  the  Monday  morning  at  a quarter  before  nine,  Herbert  went  to  the  counting- 
house  to  report  himself — to  look  about  him,  too,  I suppose — and  I bore  him  com- 
pany. He  was  to  come  away  in  an  hour  or  two  to  attend  me  to  Hammersmith, 
and  I was  to  wait  about  for  him.  It  appeared  to  me  that  the  eggs  from  which 
^oung  Insurers  were  hatched,  were  incubated  in  dust  and  heat,  like  the  eggs  o i 
ostriches,  judging  from  the  places  to  which  those  incipient  giants  repaired  on  a 


Mrs.  Pocket  and  the  Lntle  Pockets. 


M1. 

Monday  morning.  Nor  did  the  counting-house  where  Herbert  assisted,  show  in 
my  eyes  as  at  all  a good  Observatory  ; being  a back  second  floor  up  a yard,  of  a 
grimy  presence  in  all  particulars,  and  with  a look  into  another  back  second  floor, 
rather  than  a look  out. 

I waited  about  until  it  was  noon,  and  I went  upon  ’Change,  and  I saw  fluey 
men  sitting  there  under  the  bills  about  shipping,  whom  I took  to  be  great  mer- 
chants, though  I couldn’t  understand  why  they  should  all  be  out  of  spirits.  When 
Herbert  came,  we  went  and  had  lunch  at  a celebrated  house  which  I then  quite 
veneiated,  but  now  believe  to  have  been  the  most  abject  superstition  in  Europe, 
and  where  I could  not  help  noticing,  even  then,  that  there  was  much  more  gravy 
on  the  tablecloths  and  knives  and  waiters’  clothes,  than  in  the  steaks.  This  col 
lation  disposed  of  at  a moderate  price  (considering  the  grease,  which  was  not 
charged  for),  we  went  back  to  Barnard’s  Inn  and  got  my  little  portmanteau,  and 
then  took  coach  for  Hammersmith.  We  arrived  there  at  two  or  three  o’clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  had  very  little  way  to  walk  to  Mr.  Pocket’s  house.  Lifting  the. 
latch  of  a gate,  we  passed  direct  into  a little  garden  overlooking  the  river,  wh^e 
Mr.  Pocket’s  children  were  playing  about.  And,  unless  I deceive  myself  on  a 
point  where  my  interests  or  prepossessions  are  certainly  not  concerned,  I saw  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pocket’s  children  were  not  growing  up  or  being  brought  up,  but 
were  tumbling  up. 

Mrs.  Pocket  was  sitting  on  a garden  chair  under  a tree,  reading,  with  her  legs 
upon  another  garden  chair  ; and  Mrs.  Pocket’s  two  nursemaids  were  looking  about 
them  while  the  children  played.  “Mamma,”  said  Herbert,  “ this  is  young  Mr. 
Pip.”  Upon  which  Mrs.  Pocket  received  me  with  an  appearance  of  amiable 
dignity. 

“ Master  Alick  and  Miss  Jane,”  cried  one  of  the  nurses  to  two  of  the  children, 
“ if  you  go  a-bouncing  up  against  them  bushes  you’ll  fall  over  into  the  river  and  be 
drownded,  and  what’ll  your  pa  say  then  ?” 

At  the  same  time  this  nurse  picked  up  Mrs.  Pocket’s  handkerchief,  and  said, 
“If  that  don’t  make  six  times  you’ve  dropped  it,  Mum!”  Upon  which  Mrs. 
Pocket  laughed  and  said,  “ Thank  you,  Flopson,”  and  settling  herself  in  one  chair 
only, -resumed  her  book.  Her  countenance  immediately  assumed  a knitted  and 
intent  expression  as  if  she  had  been  reading  for  a week,  but  before  she  could  have 
read  half  a dozen  lines,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me,  and  said,  “I  hope  your  mamma 
is  quite  well?”  This  unexpected  inquiry  put  me  into  such  a difficulty  that  I began 
saying  in  the  absurdest  way  that  if  there  had  been  any  such  person  I had  no  doubt 
she  would  have  been  quite  well  and  would  have  been  very  much  obliged  and  would 
have  sent  her  compliments,  when  the  nurse  came  to  my  rescue. 

“Well!”  she  cried,  picking  up  the  pocket  handkerchief,  “if  that  don’t  make 
seven  times  ! What  are  you  a-doing  of  this  afternoon,  Mum!”  Mrs.  Pocket 
received  her  property,  at  first  with  a look  of  unutterable  surprise  as  if  she  had  never 
seen  it  before,  and  then  with  a laugh  of  recognition,  and  said,  “ Thank  you,  Flop- 
son,”  and  forgot  me,  and  went  on  reading. 

I found,  now  I had  leisure  to  count  them,  that  there  were  no  fewer  than  six  little 
Pockets  present,  in  various  stages  of  tumbling  up.  I had  scarcely  arrived  at  the 
total  when  a seventh  was  heard,  as  in  the  region  of  air,  wailing  dolefully. 

“ If  there  ain’t  Baby  !”  said  Flopson,  appearing  to  think  it  most  surprising. 
“Make  haste  up,  Millers!” 

Millers,  who  was  the  other  nurse,  retired  into  the  house,  and  by  degrees  the 
“hild’s  wailing  was  hushed  and  stopped,  as  if  it  were  a young  ventriloquist  with 
something  in  its  mouth.  Mrs.  Pocket  read  all  the  time,  and  I was  curious  to  know 
what  the  book  could  te. 

We  were  waiting,  I suppose,  for  Mr.  Pocket  to  come  out  to  us  ; at  any  rate  w-s 


Great  Expectation j. 


332 

waited  there,  and  so  I had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  remarkable  family 
phenomenon  that  whenever  any  of  the  children  strayed  near  Mrs.  Pocket  in  theP 
play,  they  always  tripped  themselves  up  and  tumbled  over  her — always  very  much 
to  her  momentary  astonishment,  and  their  own  more  enduring  lamentation.  I wag 
at  a loss  to  account  for  this  surprising  circumstance,  and  could  not  help  giving  my 
mind  to  speculations  about  it,  until  by-and-by  Millers  came  down  with  the  baby, 
which  Baby  was  handed  to  Flopson,  which  Flopson  was  handing  it  to  Mrs. 
Pocket,  when  she  too  went  fairly  head  foremost  over  Mrs.  Pocket,  baby  and  all, 
and  was  caught  by  Herbert  and  myself. 

“ Gracious  me,  Flopson  !”  said  Mrs.  Pocket,  looking  off  her  book  for  a moment, 
“ everybody ’s  tumbling  ! ” 

“ Gracious  you,  indeed,  Mum  !”  returned  Flopson,  very  red  in  the  face ; “ what 
have  you  got  there  ?” 

“ / got  here,  Flopson  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Pocket. 

“ Why,  if  it  ain’t  your  footstool ! ” cried  Flopson.  “ And  if  you  keep  it  under 
your  skirts  like  that,  who’s  to  help  tumbling  ? Here  ! Take  the  baby,  Mum,  and 
give  me  your  book.” 

Mrs.  Pocket  acted  on  the  advice,  and  inexpertly  danced  the  infant  a little  in  her 
lap,  while  the  other  children  played  about  it.  This  had  lasted  but  a very  short 
time,  when  Mrs.  Pocket  issued  summary  orders  that  they  were  all  to  be  taken  into 
the  house  for  a nap.  Thus  I made  the  second  discovery  on  that  first  occasion,  that 
the  nurture  of  the  little  Pockets  consisted  of  alternately  tumbling  up  and  lying 
down. 

Under  these  circumstances,  when  Flopson  and  Millers  had  got  the  children  into 
the  house,  like  a little  flock  of  sheep,  and  Mr.  Pocket  came  out  of  it  to  make  my 
acquaintance,  I was  not’ much  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Pocket  was  a gentleman 
with  a rather  perplexed  expression  of  face,  and  with  his  very  grey  hair  disordered 
on  his  head,  as  if  he  didn’t  quite  see  his  way  to  putting  anything  straight. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  Pocket  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me,  and  he  hoped  I was  not  sorry  to  see  him. 
“For,  I really  am  not,”  he  added,  with  his  son’s  smile,  “ an  alarming  personage.” 
He  was  a young-looking  man,  in  spite  of  his  perplexities  and  his  very  grey  hair, 
and  his  manner  seemed  quite  natural.  I use  the  word  natural,  in  the  sense  of  its 
being  unaffected  ; there  was  something  comic  in  his  distraught  way,  as  though  it 
would  have  been  downright  ludicrous  but  for  his  own  perception  that  it  was  very 
near  being  so.  When  he  had  talked  with  me  a little,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Pocket,  with 
a rather  anxious  contraction  of  his  eyebrows,  which  were  black  and  handsome, 
“ Belinda,  I hope  you  have  welcomed  Mr.  Pip  ?”  And  she  looked  up  from  her 
book,  and  said,  “Yes.”  She  then  smiled  upon  me  in  an  absent  state  of  mind, 
and  asked  me  if  I liked  the  taste  of  orange-flower  water  ? As  the  question  had  no 
bearing,  near  or  remote,  on  any  foregone  or  subsequent  transactions,  I considered 
it  to  have  been  thrown  out,  like  her  previous  approaches,  in  general  conversational 
condescension. 

I found  out  within  a few  hours,  and  may  mention  at  once,  that  Mrs.  Pocket  was 
the  only  daughter  of  a certain  quite  accidental  deceased  Knight,  who  had  invented 
foi  himself  a conviction  that  his  deceased  father  would  have  been  made  a Baronet 
but  for  somebody’s  determined  opposition  arising  out  of  entirely  personal  motives 
— j forget  whose,  if  I ever  knew — the  Sovereign’s,  the  Prime  Minister’s,  the  Loid 


More  aoout  the  Pocket  Family . 


333 


Chancellor’s,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury’s,  anybody’s — and  had  tacked  himseli 
on  to  the  nobles  of  the  earth  in  right  of  this  quite  supposititious  fact.  I believe  he 
had  been  knighted  himself  for  storming  the  English  grammar  at  the  point  of  the 
pen,  in  a desperate  address  engrossed  on  vellum,  on  the  occasion  of  the  laying  of 
the  firs!  stone  of  some  building  or  other,  and  for  handing  some  Royal  Personage 
either  the  trowel  or  the  mortar.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  had  directed  Mrs.  Pocket 
to  be  brought  up  from  her  cradle  as  one  who  in  the  nature  of  things  must  marry 
a title,  and  who  was  to  be  guarded  from  the  acquisition  of  plebeian  domestic 
knowledge. 

So  successful  a watch  and  ward  had  been  established  over  the  young  lady  by 
this  judicious  parent,  that  she  had  grown  up  highly  ornamental,  but  perfectly 
helpless  and  useless.  With  her  character  thus  happily  formed,  in  the  first  bloom 
of  her  youth  she  had  encountered  Mr.  Pocket : who  was  also  in  the  first  bloom  of 
youth,  and  not  quite  decided  whether  to  mount  to  the  Woolsack,  or  to  roof  him- 
self in  with  a mitre.  As  his  doing  the  one  or  the  other  was  a mere  question  of 
time,  he  and  Mrs.  Pocket  had  taken  Time  by  the  forelock  (when,  to  judge  from 
its  length,  it  would  seem  to  have  wanted  cutting),  and  had  married  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  judicious  parent.  The  judicious  parent,  having  nothing  to  bestow 
or  withhold  but  his  blessing,  had  handsomely  settled  that  dower  upon  them  after 
a short  struggle,  and  had  informed  Mr.  Pocket  that  his  wife  was  “a  treasure  for 
a Prince.”  Mr.  Pocket  had  invested  the  Prince’s  treasure  in  the  ways  of  the  world 
ever  sirtice,  and  it  was  supposed  to  have  brought  him  in  but  indifferent  interest. 
Still,  Mrs.  Pocket  was  in  general  the  object  of  a queer  sort  of  respectful  pity, 
because  she  had  not  married  a title  ; while  Mr.  Pocket  was  the  object  of  a queer 
sort  of  forgiving  reproach,  because  he  had  never  got  one. 

Mr.  Pocket  took  me  into  the  house  and  showed  me  my  room  ; which  was  a 
pleasant  one,  and  so  furnished  as  that  I could  use  it  with  comfort  for  my  own 
private  sitting-room.  He  then  knocked  at  the  doors  of  two  other  similar  rooms, 
and  introduced  me  to  their  occupants,  by  name  Drummle  and  Startop.  Drummle, 
an  old-looking  young  man  of  a heavy  order  of  architecture,  wras  whistling.  Startop, 
younger  in  years  and  appearance,  was  reading  and  holding  his  head,  as  if  he  thought 
himself  in  danger  of  exploding  it  with  too  strong  a charge  of  knowledge. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pocket  had  such  a noticeable  air  of  being  in  somebody 
else’s  hands,  that  I wondered  who  really  was  in  possession  of  the  house  and  let 
them  live  there,  until  I found  this  unknown  power  to  be  the  servants.  It  was  a 
smooth  way  of  going  on,  perhaps,  in  respect  of  saving  trouble ; but  it  had  the 
appearance  of  being  expensive,  for  the  servants  felt  it  a duty  they  owed  to  them- 
selves to  be  nice  in  their  eating  and  drinking,  and  to  keep  a deal  of  company  down 
stairs.  They  allowed  a very  liberal  table  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pocket,  yet  it  always 
appeared  to  me  that  by  far  the  best  part  of  the  house  to  have  boarded  in,  would 
have  been  the  kitchen — always  supposing  the  boarder  capable  of  self-defence,  for, 
before  I had  been  there  a week,  a neighbouring  lady  with  whom  the  family  were 
personally  unacquainted,  wrote  in  to  say  that  she  had  seen  Miliers  slapping  the 
baby.  This  greatly  distressed  Mrs.  Pocket,  who  burst  into  tears  on  receiving  the 
note,  and  said  that  it  was  an  extraordinary  thing  that  the  neighbours  couldn’t  mind 
their  own  business. 

By  degrees  I learnt,  and  chiefly  from  Herbert,  that  Mr.  Pocket  had  been  educated 
at  Harrow  and  at  Cambridge,  where  he  had  distinguished  himself ; but  that  w’heii 
he  had  had  the  happiness  of  marrying  Mrs.  Pocket  veiy  early  in  life,  he  had  im- 
paired his  prospects  and  taken  up  the  calling  of  a Grinder.  After  grinding  a 
number  of  dull  blades — of  whom  it  was  remarkable  that  their  fathers,  when  in* 
fluential,  were  always  going  to  help  him  to  preferment,  but  always  forgot  to  do  ii 
when  the  blades  had  left  the  Grindstone — he  had  wearied  of  that  poor  work  and 


334 


Great  Expectations. 


had  come  to  London.  Here,  after  gradually  failing  in  loftier  hopes,  he  had  “ read  K 
with  divers  who  had  lacked  opportunities  or  neglected  them,  and  had  refurbished 
divers  others  for  special  occasions,  and  had  turned  his  acquirements  to  the  account 
of  literary  compilation  and  correction,  and  on  such  means,  added  to  some  very 
moderate  private  resources,  still  maintained  the  house  I saw. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pocket  had  a toady  neighbour ; a widow  lady  of  that  highly  sym- 
pathetic nature  that  she  agreed  with  everybody  blessed  everybody,  and  shed 
smiles  and  tears  on  everybody,  according  to  circumstances.  This  lady’s  name  was 
Mrs.  Coder,  and  I had  the  honour  of  taking  her  down  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  my 
installation.  She  gave  me  to  understand  on  the  stairs,  that  it  was  a blow  to  dear 
Mrs.  Pocket  that  dear  Mr.  Pocket  should  be  under  the  necessity  of  receiving 
gentlemen  to  read  with  him.  That  did  not  extend  to  me,  she  told  mein  a gush  o f 
love  and  confidence  (at  that  time,  I had  known  her  something  less  than  five 
minutes) ; if  they  were  all  like  Me,  it  would  be  quite  another  thing. 

“But  dear  Mrs.  Pocket,”  said  Mrs.  Coder,  “after  her  early  disappointment 
(not  that  dear  Mr.  Pocket  was  to  blame  in  that),  requires  so  much  luxury  and 
elegance ” 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  I said,  to  stop  her,  for  I was  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry. 

“ And  she  is  of  so  aristocratic  a disposition ” 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  I said  again,  with  the  same  object  as  before. 

“ — that  it  is  hard,”  said  Mrs.  Coder,  “to  have  dear  Mr.  Pocket’s  time  and 
attention  diverted  from  dear  Mrs.  Pocket.” 

I could  not  help  thinking  that  it  might  be  harder  if  the  butcher’s  time  and  atten- 
tion were  diverted  from  dear  Mrs.  Pocket ; but  I said  nothing,  and  indeed  had 
enough  to  do  in  keeping  a bashful  watch  upon  my  company-manners. 

It  came  to  my  knowledge,  through  what  passed  between  Mrs.  Pocket  and 
Drummle,  while  I was  attentive  to  my  knife  and  fork,  spoon,  glasses,  and  other 
instruments  of  self-destruction,  that  Drummle,  whose  Christian  name  was  Bentley, 
was  actually  the  next  heir  but  one  to  a baronetcy.  It  further  appeared  that  the 
book  I had  seen  Mrs.  Pocket  reading  in  the  garden,  was  all  about  titles,  and  that 
she  knew  the  exact  date  at  which  her  grandpapa  would  have  come  into  the  book,  if 
he  ever  had  come  at  all.  Drummle  didn’t  say  much,  but  in  his  limited  way  (he 
struck  me  as  a sulky  kind  of  fellow)  he  spoke  as  one  of  the  elect,  and  recognised 
Mrs.  Pocket  as  a woman  and  a sister.  No  one  but  themselves  and  Mrs.  Coder  the 
toady  neighbour  showed  any  interest  in  this  part  of  the  conversation,  and  it 
appeared  to  me  that  it  was  painful  to  Herbert ; but  it  promised  to  last  along  time, 
when  the  page  came  in  with  the  announcement  of  a domestic  affliction.  It  was,  in 
effect,  that  the  cook  had  mislaid  the  beef.  To  my  unutterable  amazement,  I now, 
for  the  first  time,  saw  Mr.  Pocket  relieve  his  mind  by  going  through  a performance 
that  struck  me  as  very  extraordinary,  but  which  made  no  impression  on  anybody 
else,  and  with  which  I soon  became  as  familiar  as  the  rest.  He  laid  down  the 
carving-knife  and  fork — being  engaged  in  carving  at  the  moment — put  his  two 
hands  into  his  disturbed  hair,  and  appeared  to  make  an  extraordinary  effort  to 
lift  himself  up  by  it.  When  he  had  done  this,  and  had  not  lifted  himself  up  at  all, 
he  quietly  went  on  with  what  he  was  about 

Mrs.  Coder  then  changed  the  subject  and  began  to  flatter  me.  I liked  it  for  a 
few  moments,  but  she  flattered  me  so  very  grossly  that  the  pleasure  was  soon  over. 
She  had  a serpentine  way  of  coming  close  at  me  when  she  pretended  to  be  vitally 
interested  in  the  friends  and  localities  I had  left,  which  was  altogether  snaky  and 
fork-ton gued  ; and  when  she  made  an  occasional  bounce  upon  Startop  (who  said 
veiy  little  to  her),  or  upon  Drummle  (who  said  less),  I rather  envied  them  for  being 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

Aftei  dinner  fhe  children  were  introduced,  and  Mrs.  Coder  made  admiring 


Mi  s.  Pocket  stands  upon  her  Dignity . 


335 


comments  on  their  eyes,  noses,  and  legs — a sagacious  way  of  improving  their 
minds.  There  were  four  little  girls,  and  two  little  boys,  besides  the  baby  who 
might  have  been  either,  and  the  baby’s  successor  who  was  as  yet  neither. 
They  were  brought  in  by  Flopson  and  Millers,  much  as  though  those  two  non- 
commissioned officers  had  been  recruiting  somewhere  for  children  and  had  enlisted 
these  : while  Mrs.  Pocket  looked  at  the  young  Nobles  that  ought  to  have  been,  as 
if  she  rather  thought  she  had  had  the  pleasure  of  inspecting  them  before,  but 
didn’t  quite  know  what  to  make  of  them. 

“Here  ! Give  me  your  fork,  Mum,  and  take  the  baby,”  said  Flopson.  “Don’t 
take  it  that  way,  or  you’ll  get  its  head  under  the  table.” 

Thus  advised,  Mrs.  Pocket  took  it  the  other  way,  and  got  its  head  upon  the 
table  ; which  was  announced  to  all  present  by  a prodigious  concussion. 

“Dear,  dear!  give  it  me  back,  Mum,”  said  Flopson  ; “ and  Miss  Jane,  come 
and  dance  the  baby,  do  !” 

One  of  the  little  girls,  a mere  mite  who  seemed  to  have  prematurely  taken  upon 
herself  some  charge  of  the  others,  stepped  out  of  her  place  by  me,  and  danced  to 
and  from  the  baby  until  it  left  off  crying,  and  laughed.  Then  all  the  children 
laughed,  and  Mr.  Pocket  (who  in  the  meantime  had  twice  endeavoured  to  lift 
himself  up  by  the  hair)  laughed,  and  we  all  laughed  and  were  glad. 

Flopson,  by  dint  of  doubling  the  baby  at  the  joints  like  a Dutch  doll,  then 
got  it  safely  into  Mrs.  Pocket’s  lap,  and  gave  it  the  nutcrackers  to  play  with  : at 
the  same  time  recommending  Mrs.  Pocket  to  take  notice  that  the  handles  of  that 
instrument  were  not  likely  to  agree  with  its  eyes,  and  sharply  charging  Miss  Jane 
to  look  after  the  same.  Then,  the  two  nurses  left  the  room,  and  had  a lively 
scuffle  on  the  staircase  with  a dissipated  page  who  had  waited  at  dinner,  and  who 
had  clearly  lost  half  his  buttons  at  the  gaming-table. 

I was  made  very  uneasy  in  my  mind  by  Mrs.  Pocket’s  falling  into  a discussion 
with  Drummle  respecting  two  baronetcies  while  she  ate  a sliced  orange  steeped  in 
sugar  and  wine,  and  forgetting  all  about  the  baby  on  her  lap  : who  did  most 
appalling  things  with  the  nutcrackers.  At  length  little  Jane  perceived  its  young 
brains  to  be  imperilled,  softly  left  her  place,  and  with  many  small  artifices  coaxed 
the  dangerous  weapon  away.  Mrs.  Pocket  finishing  her  orange  at  about  the  same 
time,  and  not  approving  of  this,  said  to  Jane  : 

“ You  naughty  child,  how  dare  you  ? Go  and  sit  down  this  instant !” 

“ Mamma,  dear,”  lisped  the  little  girl,  “ baby  ood  have  put  hith  eyeth  out.” 

“ How  dare  you  tell  me  so !”  retorted  Mrs.  Pocket.  “ Go  and  sit  down  in 
your  chair  this  moment !” 

Mrs.  Pocket’s  dignity  was  so  crushing,  that  I felt  quite  abashed  : as  if  I myself 
had  done  something  to  rouse  it. 

“ Belinda,”  remonstrated  Mr.  Pocket,  from  the  other  end  of  the  table,  “ how 
cat  you  be  so  unreasonable?  Jane  only  interfered  for  the  protection  of 

“ I will  not  allow  anybody  to  interfere,”  said  Mrs.  Pocket.  “I  am  surprised, 
^Matthew,  that  you  should  expose  me  to  the  affront  of  interference.” 

“ Good  God  !”  cried  Mr.  Pocket,  in  an  outbreak  of  desolate  desperation.  “ Are 
infants  to  be  nutcrackered  into  their  tombs,  and  is  nobody  to  save  them  ?” 

“ I will  not  be  interfered  with  by  Jane,”  said  Mrs.  Pocket,  with  a majestic 
glance  at  that  innocent  little  offender.  “ I hope  I know  my  poor  grandpapa’s 
position,  jane,  indeed !” 

Mr.  Pocket  got  his  hands  in  his  hair  again,  and  this  time  really  did  lift  himself 
some  inches  out  of  his  chair.  “ Hear  this !”  he  helplessly  exclaimed  to  the 
elements.  “Babies  are  to  be  nutcrackered  dead,  for  people’s  poor  grandpapa’s 
positions  ln  Then  he  let  himself  down  again,  and  became  silent. 


33<5 


Great  Expectations . 


We  all  looked  awkwardly  at  the  table-cloth  while  this  was  going  on.  A pause 
Succeeded,  during  which  the  honest  and  irrepressible  baby  made  a series  of  leaps 
and  crows  at  little  Jane,  who  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  only  member  of  the  family 
(irrespective  of  the  servants)  with  whom  it  had  any  decided  acquaintance. 

“Mr.  Drummle,”  said  Mrs.  Pocket,  “will  you  ring  for  Flopson  ? Jane,  you 
undutiful  little  thing,  go  and  lie  down.  Now,  baby  darling,  come  with  ma  !” 

The  baby  was  the  soul  of  honour,  and  protested  with  all  its  might.  It  doubled 
itself  up  the  wrong  way  over  Mrs.  Pocket’s  arm,  exhibited  a pair  of  knitted  shoes 
and  dimpled  ankles  to  the  company  in  lieu  of  its  soft  face,  and  was  earned  out  in 
the  highest  state  of  mutiny.  And  it  gained  its  point  after  all,  for  I saw  it  through 
the  window  within  a few  minutes,  being  nursed  by  little  Jane.  : 

It  happened  that  the  other  five  children  were  left  behind  at  the  dinner-table, 
through  Flopson’s  having  some  private  engagement,  and  their  not  being  anybody 
else’s  business.  I thus  became  aware  of  the  mutual  relations  between  them  and 
Mr.  Pocket,  which  were  exemplified  in  the  following  manner.  Mr.  Pocket,  with 
the  normal  perplexity  of  his  face  heightened,  and  his  hair  rumpled,  looked  at  them 
for  some  minutes,  as  if  he  couldn’t  make  out  how  they  came  to  be  boarding  and 
lodging  in  that  establishment,  and  why  they  hadn’t  been  billeted  by  Nature  on 
somebody  else.  Then,  in  a distant,  Missionary  way  he  asked  them  certain  ques- 
tions— as  why  little  Joe  had  that  hole  in  his  frill : who  said,  Pa,  Flopson  was  going 
to  mend  it  when  she  had  time — and  how  little  Fanny  came  by  that  whitlow  : who 
said,  Pa,  Millers  was  going  to  poultice  it  when  she  didn’t  forget.  Then  he  melted 
into  parental  tenderness,  and  gave  them  a shilling  apiece  and  told  them  to  go  and 
play ; and  then  as  they  went  out,  with  one  very  strong  effort  to  lift  himself  up  by 
the  hair  he  dismissed  the  hopeless  subject. 

In  the  evening  there  was  rowing  on  the  river.  As  Drummle  and  Startop  had 
each  a boat,  I resolved  to  set  up  mine,  and  to  cut  them  both  out.  I was  pretty 
good  at  most  exercises  in  which  country-boys  are  adepts,  but,  as  I was  conscious 
of  wanting  elegance  of  style  for  the  Thames — not  to  say  for  other  waters — I at 
once  engaged  to  place  myself  under  the  tuition  of  the  winner  of  a prize-wherry 
who  plied  at  our  stairs,  and  to  whom  I was  introduced  by  my  new  allies.  This 
practical  authority  confused  me  very  much,  by  saying  I had  the  arm  of  a black- 
smith. If  he  could  have  known  how  nearly  the  compliment  had  lost  him  his 
pupil,  I doubt  if  he  would  have  paid  it. 

There  was  a supper-tray  after  we  got  home  at  night,  and  I think  we  should  all 
have  enjoyed  ourselves,  but  for  a rather  disagreeable  domestic  occurrence.  Mr. 
Pocket  was  in  good  spirits,  when  a housemaid  came  in,  and  said,  “ If  you  please, 
sir,  I should  wish  to  speak  to  you.” 

“ Speak  to  your  master  ?”  said  Mrs.  Pocket,  whose  dignity  was  roused  again. 
“ How  can  you  think  of  such  a thing  ? Go  and  speak  to  Flopson.  Or  speak  to 
me — at  some  other  time.” 

“ Begging  your  pardon,  ma’am,”  returned  the  housemaid,  “I  should  wish  to 
speak  at  once,  and  to  speak  to  master.” 

Hereupon  Mr.  Pocket  went  out  of  the  room,  and  we  made  the  best  of  ourselves 
until  he  came  back. 

“ This  is  a pretty  thing,  Belinda !”  said  Mr.  Pocket,  returning  with  a counte- 
nance expressive  of  grief  and  despair.  “Here’s  the  cook  lying  insensibly  drunk 
on  the  kitchen  floor,  with  a large  bundle  of  fresh  butter  made  up  in  the  cupboard 
ready  to  sell  for  grease  !” 

Mrs.  Pocket  instantly  showed  much  amiable  emotion,  and  said,  “ This  is  that 
odious  .Sophia’s  doing  !” 

‘ What  do  you  mean,  Belinda  ?”  demanded  Mr.  Pocket. 

“ Sophia  has  told  you,”  said  Mrs.  Pocket.  “ Did  I not  see  her,  with  my  own 


Pecuniary  and  other  Arrangements.  337 

eyes,  and  hear  her  with  my  own  ears,  come  into  the  room  just  now  and  ask  to 
speak  to  you  ?” 

“ Bui  has  she  not  taken  me  down  stairs,  Belinda/’  returned  Mr.  Pocket,  “ and 
ehown  me  the  woman,  and  the  bundle  too  ?” 

“ And  do  ..you  defend  her,  Matthew,”  said  Mrs.  Pocket,  “ for  making  mischief?” 
Mr.  Pocket  uttered  a dismal  groan. 

“Am  I,  grandpapa's  granddaughter,  to  be  nothing  in  the  house  ?”  said  Mis. 
Pocket.  “ Besides,  the  cook  has  always  been  a very  nice  respectful  woman,  and 
said  in  the  most  natural  manner  when  she  came  to  look  after  the  situation,  that 
she  felt  I was  born  to  be  a Duchess.” 

There  was  a sofa  where  Mr.  Pocket  stood,  and  he  dropped  upon  it  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a Dying  Gladiator.  Still  in  that  attitude  he  said,  with  a hollow  voice, 
M Good  night,  Mr.  Pip,”  when  I deemed  it  advisable  to  go  to  bed  and  leave  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

After  two  or  three  days,  when  I had  established  myself  in  my  room  and  had  gone 
backwards  and  forwards  to  London  several  times,  and  had  ordered  all  I wanted  of 
my  tradesmen,  Mr.  Pocket  and  I had  a long  talk  together.  He  knew  more  of  my 
intended  career  than  I knew  myself,  for  he  referred  to  his  having  been  told  by  Mr. 
Jaggers  that  I was  not  designed  for  any  profession,  and  that  I should  be  well 
enough  educated  for  my  destiny  if  I could  “ hold  my  own”  with  the  average  of 
young  men  in  prosperous  circumstances.  I acquiesced,  of  course,  knowing  nothing 
to  the  contrary. 

He  advised  my  attending  certain  places  in  London,  for  the  acquisition  of  such 
mere  rudiments  as  I wanted,  and  my  investing  him  with  the  functions  of  explainer 
and  director  of  all  my  studies.  He  hoped  that  with  intelligent  assistance  I should 
meet  with  little  to  discourage  me,  and  should  soon  be  able  to  dispense  with 
any  aid  but  his.  Through  his  way  of  saying  this,  and  much  more  to  similar  pur- 
pose, he  placed  himself  on  confidential  terms  with  me  in  an  admirable  manner  : 
and  I may  state  at  once  that  he  was  always  so  zealous  and  honourable  in  fulfilling 
his  compact  with  me,  that  he  made  me  zealous  and  honourable  in  fulfilling  mine 
with  him.  If  he  had  shown  indifference  as  a master,  I have  no  doubt  I should 
have  returned  the  compliment  as  a pupil ; he  gave  me  no  such  excuse,  and  each  of 
us  did  the  other  justice.  Nor,  did  I ever  regard  him  as  having  anything  ludicrous 
about  him — or  anything  but  what  was  serious,  honest,  and  good — in  his  tutor 
communication  with  me. 

When  these  points  were  settled,  and  so  far  carried  out  as  that  I had  begun  to 
work  in  earnest,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I could  retain  my  bedroom  in  Bamard’s 
Inn,  my  life  would  be  agreeably  varied,  while  my  manners  would  be  none  the 
worse  for  Herbert’s  society.  Mr.  Pocket  did  not  object  to  this  arrangement,  but 
urged  that  before  any  step  could  possibly  be  taken  in  it,  it  must  be  submitted  to 
my  guardian.  I felt  that  his  delicacy  arose  out  of  the  consideration  that  the  plan 
would  save  Herbert  some  expense,  so  I went  off  to  Little  Britain  and  imparted  my 
wish  to  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ If  I could  buy  the  furniture  now  hired  for  me,”  said  I,  “ and  one  or  two  othei 
little  things,  I should  be  quite  at  home  there.” 

“Go  it!”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  with  a short  laugh.  “I  told  you  you’d  get  on 
Well ! How  much  do  you  want  ?” 

I said  I didn’t  know  how  much. 


z 


338  Great  Expectations . 

^ - - i — — - - - ~^mrn 

“ Come  !”  reported  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ How  much  ? Fifty  pounds  ?w 
“ Oh,  not  nearly  so  much.” 

“Five  pounds  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

This  was  such  a great  fall,  that  I said  in  discomfiture,  “ Oh  ! more  than  that.** 
“More  than  that,  eh!”  retorted  Mr.  Jaggers,  lying  in  wait  for  me,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head  on  one  side,  and  his  eyes  on  the  wall  behind  nie  ; 
“ how  much  more  ?” 

“It  is  so  difficult  to  fix  a sum,”  said  I,  hesitating. 

“Come!”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “Let’s  get  at  it.  Twice  five;  will  that  do? 
Three  times  five  ; will  that  do  ? Four  times  five ; will  that  do  ? 

I said  I thought  that  would  do  handsomely. 

“Four  times  five  will  do  handsomely,  will  it  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  knitting  his 
brows.  “ Now,  what  do  you  make  of  four  times  five  ? ” 

“ What  do  I make  of  it ! ” 

“Ah!”  said  Mr.  Jaggers;  “how  much?” 

“I  suppose  you  make  it  twenty  pounds,”  said  I,  smiling. 

“ Never  mind  what  / make  it,  my  friend,”  observed  Mr.  Jaggers,  with  a 
knowing  and  contradictory  toss  of  the  head.  “ I want  to  know  what  you  make 
it?” 

“ Twenty  pounds,  of  course.  ” 

“Wemmick!”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  opening  his  office  door.  “Take  Mr.  Pip’s 
written  order,  and  pay  him  twenty  pounds.” 

This  strongly  marked  way  of  doing  business  made  a strongly  marked  impression 
on  me,  and  that  not  of  an  agreeable  kind.  Mr.  Jaggers  never  laughed  ; but  he 
wore  great  bright  creaking  boots ; and,  in  poising  himself  on  those  boots,  with  his 
large  head  bent  down  and  his  eyebrows  joined  together,  awaiting  an  answer,  he 
sometimes  caused  the  boots  to  creak,  as  if  they  laughed  in  a dry  and  suspicious 
way.  As  he  happened  to  go  out  now,  and  as  Wemmick  was  brisk  and  talkative, 
I said  to  Wemmick  that  I hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  Mr.  Jaggers’s  manner. 

“Tell  him  that,  and  he’ll  take  it  as  a compliment,”  answered  Wemmick  ; “he 
don’t  mean  that  you  should  know  what  to  make  of  it.  —Oh  ! ” for  I looked  sur- 
prised, “it’s  not  personal ; it’s  professional:  only  professional.” 

Wemmick  was  at  his  desk,  lunching — and  crunching — on  a dry  hard  biscuit; 
pieces  of  which  he  threw  from  time  to  time  into  his  slit  of  a mouth,  as  if  he  were 
posting  them. 

“ Always  seems  to  me,”  said  Wemmick,  “ as  if  he  had  set  a man-trap  and  was 
watching  it.  Suddenly — click — you’re  caught ! ” 

Without  remarking  that  man-traps  were  not^among  the  amenities  of  life,  I said 
I supposed  he  was  very  skilful  ? 

“ Deep,”  said  Wemmick,  “ as  Australia.”  Pointing  with  his  pen  at  the  office 
floor,  to  express  that  Australia  was  understood,  for  the  purposes  of  the  figure,  to 
be  symmetrically  on  the  opposite  spot  of  the  globe.  “ If  there  was  anything 
deeper,”  added  Wemmick,  bringing  his  pen  to  paper,  “ he’d  be  it.” 

Then,  I said  I supposed  he  had  a fine  business,  and  Wemmick  said,  “ Ca-pi-tal ! ” 
Then  I asked  if  there  were  many  clerks  ? to  which  he  replied  : 

“ We  don’t  run  much  into  clerks,  because  there’s  only  one  Jaggers,  and  people 
won’t  have  him  at  second-hand.  There  are  only  four  of  us.  Would  you  like  to 
see  ’em  P You  are  one  of  us,  as  I may  say.” 

I accepted  the  offer.  When  Mr.  Wemmick  had  put  all  the  biscuit  into  the  post, 
Hiid  had  paid  me  my  money  from  a cash-box  in  a safe,  the  key  of  which  safe  he 
kept  somewhere  down  his  back,  and  produced  from  his  coat-collar  like  an  iron 
pigtail,  we  went  up-stairs.  The  house  was  dark  and  shabby,  and  the  greasy 
dioulders  that  had  left  their  mark  in  Mr.  Jaggers’s  room  seemed  tc  have  been 


W em7nick' s Personal  Friends . 


339 


shutting  up  and  down  the  staircase  for  years.  In  the  front  first  floor,  a clerk  who 
looked  something  between  a publican  and  a rat-catcher — a large  pale  puffed  swollen 
man — was  attentively  engaged  with  three  or  four  people  of  shabby  appearance, 
whom  he  treated  as  unceremoniously  as  everybody  seemed  to  be  treated  who 
contributed  to  Mr.  Jaggers’s  coffers.  “ Getting  evidence  together,”  said  Mr. 
Wemmick,  as  we  came  out,  “for  the  Bailey.”  In  the  room  over  that,  a little 
flabby  terrier  of  a clerk  with  dangling  hair  (his  cropping  seemed  to  have  been 
forgotten  when  he  was  a puppy)  was  similarly  engaged  with  a man  with  weak  eyes, 
whom  Mr.  Wemmick  presented  to  me  as  a smelter  who  kept  his  pot  always  boiling, 
and  who  would  melt  me  anything  I pleased — and  who  was  in  an  excessive  white- 
perspiration,  as  if  he  had  been  trying  his  art  on  himself.  In  a back  room,  a high- 
shouldered man  with  a face-ache  tied  up  in  dirty  flannel,  who  was  dressed  in  old 
black  clothes  that  bore  the  appearance  of  having  been  waxed,  was  stooping  over 
his  work  of  making  fair  copies  of  the  notes  of  the  other  two  gentlemen,  for  Air. 
Jaggers’s  own  use. 

This  was  all  the  establishment.  When  we  went  down-stairs  again,  Wemmick 
led  me  into  my  guardian’s  room,  and  said,  “ This  you’ve  seen  already.” 

“ Pray,”  said  I,  as  the  two  odious  casts  with  the  twitchy  leer  upon  them  caught 
my  sight  again,  “whose  likenesses  are  those  ? ” 

“These  ?”  said  Wemmick,  getting  upon  a chair,  and  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
horrible  heads  before  bringing  them  down.  “ These  are  two  celebrated  ones. 
Famous  clients  of  ours  that  got  us  a world  of  credit.  This  chap  (why  you  must 
have  come  down  in  the  night  and  been  peeping  into  the  inkstand,  to  get  this 
blot  upon  your  eyebrow,  you  old  rascal ! ) murdered  his  master,  and,  considering 
that  he  wasn’t  brought  up  to  evidence,  didn’t  plan  it  badly.” 

“ Is  it  like  him  ?”  I asked,  recoiling  from  the  brute,  as  Wemmick  spat  upon 
his  eyebrow,  and  gave  it  a rub  with  his  sleeve. 

“ Like  him  ? It’s  himself,  you  know.  The  cast  was  made  in  Newgate,  directly 
after  he  was  taken  down.  You  had  a particular  fancy  for  me,  hadn’t  you,  Old 
Artful?”  said  Wemmick.  He  then  explained  this  affectionate  apostrophe,  by 
touching  his  brooch  representing  the  lady  and  the  weeping  willow  at  the  tomb 
with  the  urn  upon  it,  and  said,  “ Had  it  made  for  me  express  ! ” 

“ Is  the  lady  anybody  ? ” said  I. 

“No,”  returned  Wemmick.  “ Only  his  game.  (You  liked  your  bit  of  game, 
didn’t  you  ?)  No  ; deuce  a bit  of  a lady  in  the  case,  Mr.  Pip,  except  one — and  she 
wasn’t  of  this  slender  ladylike  sort,  and  you  wouldn’t  have  caught  her  looking 
after  this  urn — unless  there  was  something  to  drink  in  it.”  Wemmick’s  attention 
being  thus  directed  to  his  brooch,  he  put  down  the  cast,  and  polished  the  brooch 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

“ Did  that  other  creature  come  to  the  same  end  ?”  I asked.  “ He  has  the  same 
look.” 

“You’re  right,”  said  Wemmick;  “it’s  the  genuine  look.  Much  as  if  one 
nostril  was  caught  up  with  a horsehair  and  a little  fish-hook.  Yes,  he  came  to  the 
same  end  ; quite  the  natural  end  here,  I assure  you.  He  forged  wills,  this  blade 
did,  if  he  didn’t  also  put  the  supposed  testators  to  sleep  too.  You  were  a gentle- 
manly Cove,  though”  (Mr.  Wemmick  was  again  apostrophising),  “ and  you  said 
you  could  write  Greek.  Yah,  Bounceable  ! What  a liar  you  were  ! I never  met 
such  a liar  as  you  ! ” Before  putting  his  late  friend  on  his  shelf  again,  Wemmiclt 
touched  the  largest  of  his  mourning  rings,  and  said,  “ Sent  out  to  buy  it  for  me. 
only  the  day  before.” 

While  he  was  putting  up  the  other  cast  and  coming  down  from  the  chaii 
the  thought  crossed  my  mind  that  all  his  personal  jewellery  was  derived  fror' 
like  sources.  As  he  had  shown  no  diffidence  on  the  subject,  I ventured  on 


Great  Expectations . 

the  liberty  of  asking  him  the  question,  when  he  stood  before  me,  dusting  his 
hands. 

“ Oh  yes,”  he  returned,  “ these  are  all  gifts  of  that  kind.  One  biings  another, 
you  see  ; that’s  the  way  of  it.  I always  take  ’em.  They’re  curiosities.  And 
they’re  property.  They  may  not  be  worth  much,  but,  after  all,  they  re  property 
and  portable.  It  don’t  signify  to  you  with  your  brilliant  look-out,  but  as  to  myself, 
my  guiding-star  always  is,  Get  hold  of  portable  property.” 

When  I had  rendered  homage  to  this  light,  he  went  on  to  say  in  a friendly 
manner : 

“If  at  any  odd  time  when  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  you  wouldn’t  mind 
coming  over  to  see  me  at  Walworth,  I could  offer  you  a bed,  and  I should  consider 
it  an  honour.  I have  not  much  to  show  you  ; but  such  two  or  three  curiosities  as 
I have  got,  you  might  like  to  look  over  ; and  I am  fond  of  a bit  of  garden  and  a 
summer-house.” 

I said  I should  be  delighted  to  accept  his  hospitality. 

“ Thankee,”  said  he  : “ then  we’ll  consider  that  it’s  to  come  off,  when  conve- 
nient to  you.  Have  you  dined  with  Mr.  Jaggers  yet  ? ” 

“ Not  yet.” 

“Well,”  said  Wemmick,  “ he’ll  give  you  wine,  and  good  wine.  I’ll  give  you 
punch,  and  not  bad  punch.  And  now  I’ll  tell  you  something,  When  you  go  to 
dine  with  Mr.  Jaggers,  look  at  his  housekeeper.” 

“ Shall  I see  something  very  uncommon  ? ” 

“Well,”  said  Wemmick,  “ you’ll  see  a wild  beast  tamed.  Not  soveryuncom- 
mon,  you’ll  tell  me.  I reply,  that  depends  on  the  original  wildness  of  the  beast, 
and  the  amount  of  taming.  It  won’t  lower  your  opinion  of  Mr.  Jaggers’s  powers. 
Keep  your  eye  on  it.” 

I told  him  I would  do  so,  with  all  the  interest  and  curiosity  that  his  preparation 
awakened.  As  I was  taking  my  departure,  he  asked  me  if  I would  like  to  devote 
five  minutes  to  seeing  Mr.  Jaggers  “ at  it  ?” 

For  several  reasons,  and  not  least  because  I didn’t  clearly  know  what  Mr. 
Jaggers  would  be  found  to  be  “at,”  I replied  in  the  affirmative.  We  dived  into 
*.he  City,  and  came  up  in  a crowded  police-court,  where  a blood-relation  (in  the 
murderous  sense)  of  the  deceased  with  the  fanciful  taste  in  brooches,  was  standing 
at  the  bar,  uncomfortably  chewing  something;  while  my  guardian  had  a woman 
under  examination  or  cross-examination — I don’t  know  which — and  was  striking 
her,  and  the  bench,  and  everybody  with  awe.  If  anybody,  of  whatsoever  degree, 
said  a word  that  he  didn’t  approve  of,  he  instantly  required  to  have  it  “taken 
down.”  If  anybody  wouldn’t  make  an  admission,  he  said,  “ I’ll  have  it  out  of 
you!”  and  if  anybody  made  an  admission,  he  said,  “Now  I have  got  you!” 
The  magistrates  shivered  under  a single  bite  of  his  finger.  Thieves  and  thieftakers 
hung  in  dread  rapture  on  his  words,  and  shrank  when  a hair  of  his  eyebrows  turned 
in  their  direction.  Which  side  he  was  on,  I couldn’t  make  out,  for  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  grinding  the  whole  place  in  a mill ; I only  know  that  when  I stole  out  on 
tiptoe,  he  was  not  on  the  side  of  the  bench;  for,  he  was  making  the  legs  of  the  old 
gentleman  who  presided,  quite  convulsive  under  the  table,  by  his  denunciations  of 
bis  < onduct  as  the  representative  of  British  law  and  justice  in  that  chair  that  day. 


My  Fellozo-pupi’*-. 


341 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Bentley  Drummle,  who  was  so  sulky  a fellow  that  he  even  took  up  a book  as  if 
its  writer  had  done  him  an  injury,  did  not  take  up  an  acquaintance  in  a more 
agreeable  spirit.  Heavy  in  figure,  movement,  and  comprehension — in  the  sluggish 
complexion  of  his  face,  and  in  the  large  awkward  tongue  that  seemed  to  loll  about 
in  his  mouth  as  he  himself  lolled  about  in  a room — he  was  idle,  proud,  niggardly, 
reserved,  and  suspicious.  He  came  of  rich  people  down  in  Somersetshire,  who 
had  nursed  this  combination  of  qualities  until  they  made  the  discovery  that  it  was 
just  of  age  and  a blockhead.  Thus,  Bentley  Drummle  had  come  to  Mr.  Pocket 
when  he  was  a head  taller  than  that  gentleman,  and  half  a dozen  heads  thicker 
than  most  gentlemen. 

Startop  had  been  spoiled  by  a weak  mother,  and  kept  at  home  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  at  school,  but  he  was  devotedly  attached  to  her,  and  admired  her 
beyond  measure.  He  had  a woman’s  delicacy  of  feature,  and  was — “as  you  may 
see,  though  you  never  saw  her,”  said  Herbert  to  me — “ exactly  like  his  mother.” 
It  was  but  natural  that  I should  take  to  him  much  more  kindly  than  to  Drummle. 
and  that,  even  in  the  earliest  evenings  of  our  boating,  he  and  I should  pull  home- 
ward abreast  of  one  another,  conversing  from  boat  to  boat,  while  Bentley  Drummle 
came  up  in  our  wake  alone,  under  the  overhanging  banks  and  among  the  rushes. 
He  would  always  creep  in-shore  like  some  uncomfortable  amphibious  creature, 
even  when  the  tide  would  have  sent  him  fast  upon  his  way ; and  I always  think 
of  him  as  coming  after  us  in  the  dark  or  by  the  back-water,  when  our  own  two 
boats  were  breaking  the  sunset  or  the  moonlight  in  mid-stream. 

Herbert  was  my  intimate  companion  and  friend.  I presented  him  with  a half- 
share in  my  boat,  which  was  the  occasion  of  his  often  coming  down  to  Hammer- 
smith ; and  my  possession  of  a half-share  in  his  chambers  often  took  me  up  to 
London.  We  used  to  walk  between  the  two  places  at  all  hours.  I have  an 
affection  for  the  road  yet  (though  it  is  not  so  pleasant  a road  as  it  was  then),  formed 
in  the  impressibility  of  untried  youth  and  hope. 

When  I had  been  in  Mr.  Pocket’s  family  a month  or  two,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Camilla 
turned  up.  Camilla  was  Mr.  Pocket’s  sister.  Georgiana,  whom  I had  seen  at 
Miss  Havisham’s  on  the  same  occasion,  also  turned  up.  She  was  a cousin — an 
indigestive  single  woman,  who  called  her  rigidity  religion,  and  her  liver  love. 
These  people  hated  me  with  the  hatred  of  cupidity  and  disappointment.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  they  fawned  upon  me  in  my  prosperity  with  the  basest  meanness. 
Towards  Mr.  Pocket,  as  a grown-up  infant  with  no  notion  of  his  own  interests, 
they  showed  the  complacent  forbearance  I had  heard  them  express.  Mrs.  Pocket 
they  held  in  contempt ; but  they  allowed  the  poor  soul  to  have  been  heavily 
disappointed  in  life,  because  that  shed  a feeble  reflected  light  upon  themselves. 

These  were  the  surroundings  among  which  I settled  down,  and  applied  myself 
to  my  education.  I soon  contracted  expensive  habits,  and  began  to  spend  an 
amonnt  of  money  that  within  a few  short  months  I should  have  thought  almost 
fabulous  ; but  through  good  and  evil  I stuck  to  my  books.  There  was  no  other 
merit  in  this,  than  my  having  sense  enough  to  feel  my  deficiencies.  Between  Mr. 
Pocket  and  Herbert  I got  on  fast ; and,  with  one  or  the  other  always  at  my  elbow 
to  give  me  the  start  I wanted,  and  clear  obstructions  out  of  my  road,  I must  have 
been  as  great  a dolt  as  Drummle  if  I had  done  less. 

I had  not  seen  Mr.  YVemmick  for  some  weeks,  when  I thought  I would  writ* 
him  a note  and  propose  to  go  home  with  him  on  a certain  evening.  He  replied 
that  it  would  give  him  much  pleasure,  and  that  he  would  expect  me  it  the  office 


342 


Great  Expectations . 


at  six  o’clock.  Thither  I went,  and  there  I found  him,  putting  the  key  of  his  safe 
down  his  back  as  the  clock  struck. 

“ Did  you  think  of  walking  down  to  Walworth  ? ” said  he. 

“ Certainly,”  said  I,  “ if  you  approve.” 

“ Very  much,”  was  Wimmeck’s  reply,  “ for  I have  had  my  legs  under  the  desk 
dll  day,  and  shall  be  glad  to  stretch  them.  Now  I’ll  tell  you  what  I’ve  got  for 
supper,  Mr.  Pip.  I have  got  a stewed  steak — which  is  of  home  preparation— and 
a cold  roast  fowl — which  is  from  the  cook’s-shop.  I think  it’s  tender,  because  the 
master  of  the  shop  was  a Juryman  in  some  cases  of  ours  the  other  day,  and  we  let 
him  down  easy.  I reminded  him  of  it  when  I bought  the  fowl,  and  I said,  ‘ Pick 
as  out  a good  one,  old  Briton,  because  if  we  had  chosen  to  keep  you  in  the  box 
\nother  day  or  two,  we  could  have  done  it.’  He  said  to  that,  ‘ Let  me  make  you 
a present  of  the  best  fowl  in  the  shop.’  I let  him  of  course.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it’s 
propert/  and  portable.  You  don’t  object  to  an  aged  parent,  I hope  ? ” 

I really  thought  he  was  still  speaking  of  the  fowl,  until  he  added,  “ Because  I 
\ave  got  an  aged  parent  at  my  place.”  I then  said  what  politeness  required. 

“ So  you  haven’t  dined  with  Mr.  Jaggers  yet  ?”  he  pursued,  as  we  walked 
dong. 

“Not  yei.” 

“HetoMoie  so  this  afternoon  when  he  heard  you  were  coming.  I expect 
eou’ll  have  an  invitation  to-morrow.  He’s  going  to  ask  your  pals,  too.  Three  of 
'em;  ain’t  there?” 

Although  I was  not  in  the  habit  of  counting  Drummle  as  one  of  my  intimate 
associates,  I ans.vered,  “Yes.” 

“Well,  he’s  going  to  ask  the  whole  gang;”  I hardly  felt  complimented  by  the 
word  ; “ and  whatever  he  gives  you,  he’ll  give  you  good.  Don’t  look  forward  to 
variety,  but  you’ll  have  excellence.  And  there’s  another  rum  thing  in  his  house,” 
proceeded  Wemmick  after  a moment’s  pause,  as  if  the  remark  followed  on  the 
.housekeeper  understood  ; “he  never  lets  a door  or  window  be  fastened  at  night.” 

“Is  he  never  robbed  ?” 

“That’s  it!”  returned  Wemmick.  “He  says,  and  gives  it  out  publicly,  1 1 
want  to  see  the  man  who’ll  rob  me?  Lord  bless  you,  I have  heard  him,  a hundred 
limes  if  I have  heard  once,  say  to  regular  cracksmen  in  our  front  office,  ‘ You 
know  where  I live  ; now  no  bolt  is  ever  drawm  there ; why  don’t  you  do  a stroke 
of  business  with  me  ? Come  ; can’t  I tempt  you  ?’  Not  a man  of  them,  sir, 
would  be  bold  enough  to  try  it  on,  for  love  or  money.” 

“They  dread  him  so  much  ?”  said  I. 

“ IVead  him,”  said  Wemmick.  “ I believe  you  they  dread  him.  Not  but  what 
he’s  aitful,  even  in  his  defiance  of  them.  No  silver,  sir.  Britannia  metal,  every 
spoon.” 

“ So  they  wouldn’t  have  much,”  I observed,  “ even  if  they ” 

“ Ah  ! But  he  would  have  much,”  said  Wemmick,  cutting  me  short,  “ and 
they  know  it.  He’d  have  their  lives,  and  the  lives  of  scores  of  ’em.  He’d  have 
all  he  could  got.  And  it’s  impossible  to  say  what  he  couldn’t  get,  if  he  gave  his 
mind  to  it.” 

I was  falling  into  meditation  on  my  guardian’s  greatness,  when  Wemmick 
remar  Ked : 

-As  to  the  absence  of  plate,  that’s  only  his  natural  depth,  you  know.  A 
river ’s  its  natural  depth,  and  he’s  his  natural  depth.  Look  at  his  watch-chain. 
1'hat’s  real  enough.” 

“ It’s  very  massive,”  said  I. 

“Massive?”  repeated  Wemmick.  “I  think  so.  And  his  watch  is  a gold 
repeater,  and  worth  a hun  ired  pound  if  it’s  worth  a penny.  Mr.  Pip,  there  ara 


/ go  home  with  Wemmick . 


343 


about  seven  hundred  thieves  in  this  town  who  know  all  about  that  watch  ; there’s 
not  a man,  a woman,  or  a child,  among  them,  who  wouldn’t  identify  the  smallest 
link  in  that  chain,  and  drop  it  as  if  it  was  red-hot,  if  inveigled  into  touching  it.” 

At  first  with  such  discourse,  and  afterwards  with  conversation  of  a more  general 
nature,  did  Mr.  Wemmick  and  I beguile  the  time  and  the  road,  until  he  gave  me 
to  understand  that  we  had  arrived  in  the  district  of  Walworth. 

It  appeared  to  be  a collection  of  black  lanes,  ditches,  and  little  gardens,  and  to 
present  the  aspect  of  a rather  dull  retirement.  Wemmick’s  house  was  a little 
wooden  cottage  in  the  midst  of  plots  of  garden,  and  the  top  of  it  was  cut  out  and 
painted  like  a battery  mounted  with  guns. 

“ My  own  doing,”  said  Wemmick.  “ Looks  pretty ; don’t  it  ?” 

I highly  commended  it.  I think  it  was  the  smallest  house  I ever  saw ; with 
the  queerest  gothic  windows  (by  far  the  greater  part  of  them  sham),  and  a gothic 
door,  almost  too  small  to  get  in  at. 

“ That’s  a real  flagstaff,  you  see,”  said  Wemmick,  “ and  on  Sundays  I run  up 
a real  flag.  Then  look  here.  After  I have  crossed  this  bridge,  I hoist  it  up — so 
— and  out  off  the  communication.” 

The  bridge  was  a plank,  and  it  crossed  a chasm  about  four  feet  wide  and  two 
deep.  But  it  was  very  pleasant  to  see  the  pride  with  which  he  hoisted  it  up,  and 
made  it  fast ; smiling  as  he  did  so,  with  a relish,  and  not  merely  mechanically. 

“ At  nine  o’clock  every  night,  Greenwich  time,”  said  Wemmick,  “the  gun 
fires.  There  he  is,  you  see  ! And  when  you  hear  him  go,  I think  you’ll  say  he’s 
a Stinger.” 

The  piece  of  ordnance  referred  to,  was  mounted  in  a separate  fortress,  constructed 
of  lattice-work.  It  was  protected  from  the  weather  by  an  ingenious  little  tarpaulin 
contrivance  in  the  nature  of  an  umbrella. 

“Then,  at  the  back,”  said  Wemmick,  “ out  of  sight,  so  as  not  to  impede  the 
idea  of  fortifications — for  it’s  a principle  with  me,  if  you  have  an  idea,  carry  it  out 
and  keep  it  up — I don’t  know  whether  that’s  your  opinion ” 

I said,  decidedly. 

“ — At  the  back,  there’s  a pig,  and  there  are  fowls  and  rabbits;  then  I knock 
together  my  own  little  frame,  you  see,  and  grow  cucumbers  ; and  you’ll  judge  at 
supper  what  sort  of  a salad  I can  raise.  So,  sir,”  said  Wemmick,  smiling  again, 
but  seriously,  too,  as  he  shook  his  head,  “ if  you  can  suppose  the  little  place 
besieged,  it  would  hold  out  a devil  of  a time  in  point  of  provisions.” 

Then,  he  conducted  me  to  a bower  about  a dozen  yards  off,  but  which  was 
approached  by  such  ingenious  twists  of  path  that  it  took  quite  a long  time  to  get 
at ; and  in  this  retreat  our  glasses  were  already  set  forth.  Our  punch  was  cooling 
in  an  ornamental  lake,  on  whose  margin  the  bower  was  raised.  This  piece  of 
water  (with  an  island  in  the  middle  which  might  have  been  the  salad  for  supper) 
was  of  a circular  form,  and  he  had  constructed  a fountain  in  it,  which,  when  you 
set  a little  mill  going  and  took  a cork  out  of  a pipe,  played  to  that  powerful  extent 
that  it  made  the  back  of  your  hand  quite  wet. 

“ I am  my  own  engineer,  and  my  own  carpenter,  and  my  own  plumber,  and  m) 
own  gardener,  and  my  own  Jack  of  all  Trades,”  said  Wemmick,  in  acknowledging 
my  compliments.  “Well,  it’s  a good  thing,  you  know.  It  brushes  the  Newgate 
cobwebs  away,  and  pleases  the  Aged.  You  wouldn’t  mind  being  at  once  intro* 
duced  to  the  Aged,  would  you  ? It  wouldn’t  put  you  out  ?” 

I expressed  the  readiness  I felt,  and  we  went  into  the  castle.  There,  we  found, 
sitting  by  a fire,  a very  old  man  in  a flannel  coat : clean,  cheerful,  comfortable, 
and  well  cared  for,  but  intensely  deaf. 

“Well,  aged  parent,”  said  Wemmick,  shaking  hands  with  him  in  a cordial 
md  jocose  way,  “ how  am  you  ?” 


344 


Great  Expectations . 


“ All  right,  John  ; all  right replied  the  old  man. 

“Here’s  Mr.  Pip,  aged  parent,”  said  Wemmick,  “and  I wish  you  could  heal 
his  name.  Nod  away  at  him,  Mr.  Pip  ; that’s  what  he  likes.  Nod  away  at  him, 
if  you  please,  like  winking !” 

“This  is  a fine  place  of  my  son’s,  sir,”  cried  the  old  man,  while  I nodded  a< 
hard  as  I possibly  could.  “This  is  a pretty  pleasure-ground,  sir.  This  spot  and 
these  beautiful  works  upon  it  ought  to  be  kept  together  by„the  Nation,  after  my 
son’s  time,  for  the  people’s  enjoyment.” 

“You’re  as  proud  of  it  as  Punch  ; ain’t  you,  Aged  ?”  said  Wemmick,  contem- 
plating the  old  man,  with  his  hard  face  really  softened  ; “ there's  a nod  for  you 
giving  him  a tremendous  one  ; “ there's  another  for  you  ’”  giving  him  a still  more 
tremendous  one;  “you  like  that,  don’t  you?  If  you’re  not  tired,  Mr.  Pip— 
though  I know  it’s  tiring  to  strangers — will  you  tip  him  one  more  ? You  can’! 
think  how  it  pleases  him.” 

I tipped  him  several  more,  and  he  was  in  great  spirits.  We  left  him  bestirring 
himself  to  feed  the  fowls,  and  we  sat  down  to  our  punch  in  the  arbour ; where 
Wemmick  told  me  as  he  smoked  a pipe,  that  it  had  taken  him  a good  many  yean 
to  bring  the  property  up  to  its  present  pitch  of  perfection. 

“ Is  it  your  own,  Mr.  Wemmick  ?” 

“ O yes,”  said  Wemmick,  “ I have  got  hold  of  it,  a bit  at  a time.  It’s  a free* 
hold,  by  George  !” 

“ Is  it,  indeed  ? I hope  Mr.  Jaggers  admires  it  ?” 

“ Never  seen  it,”  said  Wemmick.  “ Never  heard  of  it.  Never  seen  the  Aged. 
Never  heard  of  him.  No  ; the  office  is  one  thing,  and  private  life  is  another. 
When  I go  into  the  office,  I leave  the  Castle  behind  me,  and  when  I come  into 
the  Castle,  I leave  the  office  behind  me.  If  it’s  not  in  anyway  disagreeable  to  you, 
you’ll  oblige  me  by  doing  the  same.  I don’t  wish  it  professionally  spoken  about.” 

Of  course  I felt  my  good  faith  involved  in  the  observance  of  his  request.  The 
punch  being  very  nice,  we  sat  there  drinking  it  and  talking,  until  it  was  almost 
nine  o’clock.  “ Getting  near  gun-fire,”  said  Wemmick  then,  as  he  laid  down  his 
pipe  ; “it’s  the  Aged’s  treat.” 

Proceeding  into  the  Castle  again,  we  found  the  Aged  heating  the  poker,  with 
expectant  eyes,  as  a preliminary  to  the  performance  of  this  great  nightly  ceremony. 
Wemmick  stood  with  his  watch  in  his  hand  until  the  moment  was  come  for  him 
to  take  the  red-hot  poker  from  the  Aged,  and  repair  to  the  battery.  He  took  it, 
and  went  out,  and  presently  the  Stinger  went  off  with  a bang  that  shook  the  crazy 
little  box  of  a cottage  as  if  it  must  fall  to  pieces,  and  made  every  glass  and  teacup 
in  it  ring.  Upon  this  the  Aged — who  I believe  would  have  been  blown  out  of 
his  arm-chair  but  for  holding  on  by  the  elbows — cried  out  exultingly,  “ He’s  fired ! 
I heerdhim  1”  and  I nodded  at  the  old  gentleman  until  it  is  no  figure  of  speech  to 
declare  that  I absolutely  could  not  see  him. 

The  interval  between  that  time  and  supper,  Wemmick  devoted  to  showing  me 
his  collection  of  curiosities.  They  were  mostly  of  a felonious  character  ; compris- 
ing the  pen  with  which  a celebrated  forgery  had  been  committed,  a distinguished 
razor  or  two,  some  locks  of  hair,  and  several  manuscript  confessions  written  under 
condemnation — upon  which  Mr.  Wemmick  set  particular  value  as  being,  to  use 
bis  own  words,  “ every  one  of  ’em  Lies,  sir.”  These  were  agreeably  dispersed 
among  small  specimens  of  china  and  glass,  various  neat  trifles  made  by  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  museum,  and  some  tobacco-stoppers  carved  by  the  Aged.  They 
were  all  displayed  in  that  chamber  of  the  Castle  into  which  I had  been  first 
inducted,  and  which  served,  not  only  as  the  general  sitting-room,  but  as  the  kitchen 
too,  if  I might  judge  from  a saucepan  on  the  hob,  and  a brazen  bijou  over  the 
fireplace  designed  for  the  suspension  of  a roasting-jack. 


An  invitation  to  Dinner . 


345 


There  was  a neat  little  girl  in  attendance,  who  looked  after  the  Aged  in  the  day. 
When  she  had  laid  the  supper-cloth,  the  bridge  was  lowered  to  give  her  the  means 
of  egress,  and  she  withdrew  for  the  night.  The  supper  was  excellent ; and 
though  the  Castle  was  rather  subject  to  dry-rot,  insomuch  that  it  tasted  like  a bad 
nut,  and  though  the  pig  might  have  been  farther  off,  I was  lieai  tily  pleased  with 
my  whole  entertainment.  Nor  was  there  any  drawback  on  my  little  turret  bed- 
room, beyond  there  being  such  a very  thin  ceiling  between  me  and  the  flagstaff,  that 
when  I lay  down  on  my  back  in  bed,  it  seemed  as  if  I had  to  balance  that  pole  on 
my  forehead  all  night. 

Wemmick  was  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  I am  afraid  I heard  him  cleaning 
my  boots.  After  that,  he  fell  to  gardening,  and  I saw  him  from  my  gothic  window 
pretending  to  employ  the  Aged,  and  nodding  at  him  in  a most  devoted  manner. 
Our  breakfast  was  as  good  as  the  supper,  and  at  half-past  eight  precisely  we  started 
for  Little  Britain.  By  degrees,  Wemmick  got  dryer  and  harder  as  we  went  along, 
and  his  mouth  tightened  into  a post-office  again.  At  last,  when  we  got  to  his 
place  of  business  and  he  pulled  out  his  key  from  his  coat-collar,  he  looked  as 
unconscious  of  his  Walworth  property  as  if  the  Castle  and  the  drawbridge  and  the 
arbour  and  the  lake  and  the  fountain  and  the  Aged,  had  all  been  blown  into  space 
together  by  the  last  discharge  of  the  Stinger. 


CHAPTER  XX VJ. 

It  fell  out  as  Wemmick  had  told  me  it  would,  that  I had  an  early  opportunity  of 
compaiing  my  guardian’s  establishment  with  that  of  his  cashier  and  clerk.  My 
guardian  was  in  his  room,  washing  his  hands  with  his  scented  soap,  when  I went 
into  the  office  from  Walworth  ; and  he  called  me  to  him,  and  gave  me  the  invita- 
tion for  myself  and  friends  which  Wemmick  had  prepared  me  to  receive.  “No 
ceremony,”  he  stipulated,  “ and  no  dinner  dress,  and  say  to-morrow.”  I asked 
him  where  we  should  come  to  (for  I had  no  idea  where  he  lived),  and  I believe  it 
was  in  his  general  objection  to  make  anything  like  an  admission,  that  he  replied, 
“Come  here,  and  I’ll  take  you  home  with  me.”  I embrace  this  opportunity  of 
remarking  that  he  washed  his  clients  off,  as  if  it  were  a surgeon  or  a dentist.  He 
had  a closet  in  his  room,  fitted  up  for  the  purpose,  which  smelt  of  the  scented  soap 
like  a perfumer’s  shop.  It  had  an  unusually  large  jack-towel  on  a roller  inside 
the  door,  and  he  would  wash  his  hands,  and  wipe  them  and  dry  them  all  over  this 
towel,  whenever  he  came  in  from  a police-court  or  dismissed  a client  from  his 
room.  When  I and  my  friends  repaired  to  him  at  six  o’clock  next  day,  he  seemed 
to  have  been  engaged  on  a case  of  a darker  complexion  than  usual,  for,  we  found 
him  with  his  head  butted  into  this  closet,  not  only  washing  his  hands,  but  laving 
his  face  and  gargling  his  throat.  And  even  when  he  had  done  all  that,  and  had 
gone  all  round  the  jack-towel,  he  took  out  his  penknife  and  scraped  the  case  out 
of  his  nails  before  he  put  his  coat  on. 

There  were  some  people  slinking  about  as  usual  when  we  passed  out  into  the 
street,  who  were  evidently  anxious  to  speak  with  him ; but  there  was  something 
so  conclusive  in  the  halo  of  scented  soap  which  encircled  his  presence,  that  they 
gave  it  up  for  that  day.  As  we  walked  along  westward,  he  was  recognised  ever 
and  again  by  some  face  in  the  crowd  of  the  streets,  and  whenever  that  happened 
he  talked  louder  to  me ; but  he  never  otherwise  recognised  anybody,  or  took  notice 
that  anybody  recognised  him. 

He  conducted  us  to  Gerrard-street,  Soho,  to  a house  on  the  south  side  of  that 


346 


Great  Expectations. 


street,  rather  a stately  house  of  its  kind,  but  dolefully  in  want  of  painting,  and  with 
dirty  windows.  He  took  out  his  key  and  opened  the  door,  and  we  all  went  into 
a stone  hall,  bare,  gloomy,  and  little  used.  So,  up  a dark  brown  staircase  into  a 
series  of  three  dark  brown  rooms  on  the  first  floor.  There  were  carved  garlands 
en  the  panelled  walls,  and  as  he  stood  among  them  giving  us  welcome,  I know 
what  kind  of  loops  I thought  they  looked  like. 

Dinner  was  laid  in  the  best  of  these  rooms  ; the  second  was  his  dressing-room  ; 
the  third,  his  bedroom.  He  told  us  that  he  held  the  whole  house,  but  rarely  used 
more  of  it  than  we  saw.  The  table  was  comfortably  laid — no  silver  in  the  service, 
of  course — and  at  the  side  of  his  chair  was  a capacious  dumb-waiter,  with  a variety 
of  bottles  and  decanters  on  it,  and  four  dishes  of  fruit  for  desert.  I noticed 
throughout,  that  he  kept  everything  under  his  own  hand,  and  distributed  every- 
thing himself. 

There  was  a bookcase  in  the  room ; I saw  from  the  backs  of  the  books,  that 
they  were  about  evidence,  criminal  law,  criminal  biography,  trials,  acts  of  parlia- 
ment, and  such  things.  The  furniture  was  all  very  solid  and  good,  like  his  watch- 
chain.  It  had  an  official  look,  however,  and  there  was  nothing  merely  ornamental 
to  be  seen.  In  a corner,  was  a little  table  of  papers  with  a shaded  lamp  ; so  that 
he  seemed  to  bring  the  office  home  with  him  in  that  respect  too,  and  to  wheel  it 
out  of  an  evening  and  fall  to  work. 

As  he  had  scarcely  seen  my  three  companions  until  now — for,  he  and  I had 
walked  together — he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  after  ringing  the  bell,  and  took  a 
searching  look  at  them.  To  my  surprise,  he  seemed  at  once  to  be  principally,  if 
not  solely,  interested  in  Drummle. 

“Pip,”  said  he,  putting  his  large  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  moving  me  to  the 
window,  “ I don’t  know  one  from  the  other.  Who’s  the  Spider  ? 99 

“ The  spider  ? ” said  I. 

“ The  blotchy,  sprawly,  sulky  fallow,” 

“That’s  Bentley  Drummle,”  1 replied;  “the  one  with  the  delicate  face  is 
Startop.” 

Not  making  the  least  account  of  “the  one  with  the  delicate  face,”  he  returned, 
“ Bentley  Drummle  is  his  name,  is  it  ? I like  the  look  of  that  fellow.” 

He  immediately  began  to  talk  to  Drummle  : not  at  all  deterred  by  his  replying 
in  his  heavy  reticent  way,  but  apparently  led  on  by  it  to  screw  discourse  out  of 
him.  I was  looking  at  the  two,  when  there  came  between  me  and  them,  the 
housekeeper,  with  the  first  dish  for  the  table. 

She  was  a woman  of  about  forty,  I supposed — but  I may  have  thought  her 
younger  than  she  was.  Rather  tall,  of  a lithe  nimble  figure,  extremely  pale, 
with  large  faded  eyes,  and  a quantity  of  streaming  hair.  I cannot  say  whether 
any  diseased  affection  of  the  heart  caused  her  lips  to  be  parted  as  if  she  were 
panting,  and  her  face  to  bear  a curious  expression  of  suddenness  and  flutter  ; but 
I know  that  I had  been  to  see  Macbeth  at  the  theatre,  a night  or  two  before, 
and  that  her  face  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were  all  disturbed  by  fiery  air,  like  the 
faces  I had  seen  rise  out  of  the  Witches’  caldron. 

She  set  the  dish  on,  touched  my  guardian  quietly  on  the  arm  with  a finger  to 
notify  that  dinner  was  ready,  and  vanished.  We  took  our  seats  at  the  round 
table,  and  my  guardian  kept  Drummle  on  one  side  of  him,  while  Startop  sat  on 
the  other.  It  was  a noble  dish  of  fish  that  the  housekeeper  had  put  on  table,  and 
we  had  a joint  of  equally  choice  mutton  afterwards,  and  then  an  equally  choice 
bird.  Sauces,  wines,  all  the  accessories  we  wanted,  and  all  of  the  best,  were 
given  out  by  our  host  from  his  dumb-waiter  ; and  when  they  had  made  the  circuit 
of  the  table,  he  always  put  them  back  again.  Similarly,  he  dealt  us  clean  plates 
uid  knives  and  forks,  for  each  course,  and  dropped  those  just  disused  intc  two 


The  Dinner  at  Mr.  J aggers's. 


347 


baskets  on  the  ground  by  his  chair.  No  other  attendant  than  the  housekeepei 
appeared.  She  set  on  every  dish  ; and  I always  saw  in  her  face,  a face  rising  out 
of  the  caldron.  Years  afterwards,  I made  a dreadful  likeness  of  that  woman,  by 
causing  a face  that  had  no  other  natural  resemblance  to  it  than  it  derived  from 
flowing  air,  to  pass  behind  a bowl  of  flaming  spirits  in  a dark  room. 

Induced  to  take  particular  notice  of  the  housekeeper,  both  by  her  own  striking 
appearance  and  by  Wemmick’s  preparation,  I observed  that  whenever  she  was  in 
the  room,  she  kept  her  eyes  attentively  on  my  guardian,  and  that  she  would 
remove  her  hands  from  any  dish  she  put  before  him,  hesitatingly,  as  if  she  dreaded 
his  calling  her  back,  and  wanted  him  to  speak  when  she  was  nigh,  if  he  had 
anything  to  say.  I fancied  that  I could  detect  in  his  manner  a consciousness  of 
this,  and  a purpose  of  always  holding  her  in  suspense. 

Dinner  went  off  gaily,  and,  although  my  guardian  seemed  to  follow  rather  than 
originate  subjects,  I knew  that  he  wrenched  the  weakest  part  of  our  dispositions 
out  of  us.  For  myself,  I found  that  I was  expressing  my  tendency  to  lavish  ex- 
penditure, and  to  patronise  Herbert,  and  to  boast  of  my  great  prospects,  before  I 
quite  knew  that  I had  opened  my  lips.  It  was  so  with  all  of  us,  but  with  no  one 
more  than  Drummle  : the  development  of  whose  inclination  to  gird  in  a grudging 
and  suspicious  way  at  the  rest,  was  screwed  out  of  him  before  the  fish  was 
taken  off. 

It  was  not  then,  but  when  we  had  got  to  the  cheese,  that  our  conversation 
turned  upon  our  rowing  feats,  and  that  Drummle  was  rallied  for  coming  up  be- 
hind of  a night  in  that  slow  amphibious  way  of  his.  Drummle  upon  this,  informed 
our  host  that  he  much  preferred  our  room  to  our  company,  and  that  as  to  skill  he 
was  more  than  our  master,  and  that  as  to  strength  he  could  scatter  us  like  chaff. 
By  some  invisible  agency,  my  guardian  wound  him  up  to  a pitch  little  short  of 
ferocity  about  this  trifle ; and  he  fell  to  baring  and  spanning  his  arm  to  show 
how  muscular  it  was,  and  we  all  fell  to  baring  and  spanning  our  arms  in  a ridicu- 
lous manner. 

Now,  the  housekeeper  was  at  that  time  clearing  the  table  ; my  guardian, 
taking  no  heed  of  her,  but  with  the  side  of  his  face  turned  from  her,  was  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  biting  the  side  of  his  forefinger  and  showing  an  interest  in 
Drummle,  that,  to  me,  was  quite  inexplicable.  Suddenly,  he  clapped  his  large 
hand  on  the  housekeeper’s,  like  a trap,  as  she  stretched  it  across  the  table.  So 
suddenly  and  smartly  did  he  do  this,  that  we  all  stopped  in  our  foolish  contention. 

“ If  you  talk  of  strength,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “/’ll  show  you  a wrist.-  Molly, 
let  them  st  .*  vour  wrist.” 

Her  entrapped  hand  was  on  the  table,  but  she  had  already  put  her  other  hand 
behind  her  waist.  Master,”  she  said,  in  a low  voice,  with  her  eyes  attentively 
and  entreatingly  fixed  upon  him,  “ Don’t.” 

“/’ll  show  you  a wrist,”  repeated  Mr.  Jaggers,  with  an  immovable  determina- 
tion to  show  it.  “ Molly,  let  them  see  your  wrist.” 

“ Master,”  she  again  murmured.  “ Please ! 99 

“ Molly,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  not  looking  at  her,  but  obstinately  looking  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  “ let  them  see  both  your  wrists.  Show  them.  Come  ! ” 

He  took  his  hand  from  hers,  and  turned  that  wrist  up  on  the  table.  She  brought 
her  other  hand  from  behind  her,  and  held  the  two  out  side  by  side.  The  last 
wrist  was  much  disfigured — deeply  scarred  and  scarred  across  and  across.  When 
she  held  her  hands  out,  she  took  her  eyes  from  Mr.  Jaggers,  and  turned  them 
watchfully  on  every  one  of  the  rest  of  us  in  succession. 

“ There’s  power  here,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  coolly  tracing  out  the  sinews  wi*h  his 
forefinger.  “ Very  few  men  have  the  power  of  wrist  that  this  woman  has.  It's 
-emarkable  what  mere  force  of  grip  there  is  in  these  hands.  I have  bad  occasion 


348 


Great  Expectations. 


to  notice  many  hands ; but  I never  saw  stronger  in  that  respect,  man’s  or  woman’s, 
than  these.” 

While  he  said  these  words  in  a leisurely  critical  style,  she  continued  to  look  aT 
every  one  of  us  in  regular  succession  as  we  sat.  The  moment  he  ceased,  she 
looked  at  him  again.  “ That’ll  do,  Molly,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  giving  her  a slight 
nod ; “ you  have  been  admired,  and  can  go.”  She  withdrew  her  hands  and  went 
out  of  the  room,  and  Mr.  Jaggers,  putting  the  decanters  on  from  his  dumb-waiter, 
filled  his  glass  and  passed  round  the  wine. 

“ At  half-past  nine,  gentlemen,”  said  he,  “ we  must  break  up.  Pray  make  the 
best  use  of  your  time.  I am  glad  to  see  you  all.  Mr.  Drummle,  I drink  to 
you.” 

If  his  object  in  singling  out  Drummle  were  to  bring  him  out  still  more,  it  per- 
fectly succeeded.  In  a sulky  triumph,  Drummle  showed  his  morose  depreciation 
of  the  rest  of  us,  in  a more  and  more  offensive  degree,  until  he  became  downright 
intolerable.  Through  all  his  stages,  Mr.  Jaggers  followed  him  with  the  same 
strange  interest.  He  actually  seemed  to  serve  as  a zest  to  Mr.  Jaggers’s  wdne. 

In  our  boyish  want  of  discretion  I dare  say  we  took  too  much  to  drink,  and  I 
know  we  talked  too  much.  We  became  particularly  hot  upon  some  boorish  sneer 
of  Drummle’s,  to  the  effect  that  we  were  too  free  with  our  money.  It  led  to  my 
remarking,  with  more  zeal  than  discretion,  that  it  came  with  a bad  grace  from 
him,  to  whom  Startop  had  lent  money  in  my  presence  but  a week  or  so  before. 

“ Well,”  retorted  Drummle,  “ he’ll  be  paid.” 

“ I don’t  mean  to  imply  that  he  won’t,”  said  I,  “ but  it  might  make  you  hold 
your  tongue  about  us  and  our  money,  I should  think.” 

“ You  should  think  !”  retorted  Drummle.  “ Oh  Lord  !” 

“ I dare  say,”  I went  on,  meaning  to  be  very  severe,  “ that  you  wouldn’t  lend 
money  to  any  of  us  if  we  wanted  it.” 

“ You  are  right,”  said  Drummle.  “ I wouldn’t  lend  one  of  you  a sixpence.  1 
wouldn’t  lend  anybody  a sixpence.” 

“ Rather  mean  to  borrow  under  those  circumstances,  I should  say.” 

“ You  should  say,”  repeated  Drummle.  “ Oh,  Lord  !” 

This  was  so  very  aggravating — the  more  especially  as  I found  myself  making 
no  way  against  his  surly  obtuseness — that  I said,  disregarding  Plerbert’s  efforts  to 
check  me : 

“ Come,  Mr.  Drummle,  since  we  are  on  the  subject,  I’ll  tell  you  what  passed 
between  Herbert  here  and  me,  when  you  borrowed  that  money.” 

“ / don’t  want  to  know  what  passed  between  Herbert  there  and  you,”  growled 
Drummle.  And  I think  he  added  in  a lower  growl,  that  we  might  both  go  to  the 
devil  and  shake  ourselves. 

“ I’ll  tell  you,  however,”  said  I,  *•  whether  you  want  to  know  or  not.  We  said 
that  as  you  put  it  into  your  pocket  very  glad  to  get  it,  you  seemed  to  be  immensely 
amused  at  his  being  so  weak  as  to  lend  it.” 

Drummle  laughed  outright,  and  sat  laughing  in  our  faces,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  round  shoulders  raised,  plainly  signifying  that  it  was  quite  true, 
and  that  he  despised  us  as  asses  all. 

Hereupon  Startop  took  him  in  hand,  though  with  a much  better  grace  than  I 
had  shown,  and  exhorted  him  to  be  a little  more  agreeable.  Startop,  being  a 
lively  bright  young  fellow,  and  Drummle  being  the  exact  opposite,  the  latter  was 
always  disposed  to  resent  him  as  a direct  personal  affront.  He  now  retorted  in 
a coarse  lumpish  way,  and  Startop  tried  to  turn  the  discussion  aside  with  some 
small  pleasantry  that  made  us  all  laugh.  Resenting  this  little  success  more  than 
anything,  Drummle,  without  any  threat  or  warning,  pulled  his  hands  out  of  his 
poejcets,  dropped  his  round  shoulders,  swore,  took  up  a large  glass,  and  would 


I don  t like  Bentley  Brummie . 


349 


have  flung  it  at  his  adversary’s  head,  but  for  our  entertainer’s  dexterously  seizing 
it  at  the  instant  when  it  was  raised  for  that  purpose. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  deliberately  putting  down  the  glass,  and 
hauling  out  his  gold  repeater  by  its  massive  chain,  “ I am  exceedingly  sorry  to 
announce  that  it’s  half-past  nine./’ 

On  this  hint  we  all  rose  to  depart.  Before  we  got  to  the  street  door,  Startop 
was  cheerily  calling  Drummle  “ old  boy,”  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  But  the 
old  boy  was  so  far  from  responding,  that  he  would  not  even  walk  to  Hammersmith 
on  the  same  side  of  the  way  ; so,  Herbert  and  I,  who  remained  in  town,  saw 
them  going  down  the  street  on  opposite  sides  ; Startop  leading,  and  Drummle 
lagging  behind  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses,  much  as  he  was  wont  to  follow  in 
his  boat. 

As  the  door  was  not  yet  shut,  I thought  I would  leave  Herbert  there  for  a 
moment,  and  run  up-stairs  again  to  say  a word  to  my  guardian.  I found  him  in 
his  dressing-room  surrounded  by  his  stock  of  boots,  already  hard  at  it,  washing 
his  hands  of  us. 

I told  him  I had  come  up  again  to  say  how  sorry  I was  that  anything  disagree- 
able should  have  occurred,  and  that  I hoped  he  would  not  blame  me  much. 

“ Pooh  ! ” said  he,  sluicing  his  face,  and  speaking  through  the  water-drops  ; 
“ it’s  nothing,  Pip.  I like  that  Spider  though.” 

He  had  turned  towards  me  now,  and  was  shaking  his  head,  and  blowing,  and 
towelling  himself. 

“ I am  glad  you  like  him,  sir,”  said  I — “ but  I don’t.” 

“No,  no,”  my  guardian  assented;  “don’t  have  too  much  to  do  with  him. 
Keep  as  clear  of  him  as  you  can.  But  I like  the  fellow,  Pip  ; he  is  one  of  the 
true  sort.  Why,'  if  I was  a fortune-teller ” 

Looking  out  of  the  towel,  he  caught  my  eye. 

“ But  I am  not  a fortune-teller,”  he  said,  letting  his  head  drop  into  a festoon 
of  towel,  and  towelling  away  at  his  two  ears.  “ You  know  what  I am,  don’t 
you  ? Good-night,  Pip.” 

“ Good-night,  sir.” 

In  about  a month  after  that,  the  Spider's  time  with  Mr.  Pocket  was  up  for  good, 
and,  to  the  great  relief  of  all  the  house  but,  Mrs.  Pocket,  he  went  home  to  the 
family  hole. 


• CHAPTER  XXVII. 

* My  Dear  Mr.  Pip, 

“ I write  this  by  request  of  Mr.  G-argery,  for  to  let  you  know  that  he  is  going  to  London  in 
company  with  Mr.  Wopsle  and  would  be  glad  if  agreeable  to  be  allowed  to  see  you.  He  would  call 
at  Barnard’s  Hotel  Tuesday  morning  at  nine  o’clock,  when  if  not  agreeable  please  leave  word.  Your 
poor  sister  is  much  the  same  as  when  you  left.  We  talk  of  you  in  the  kitchen  every  night,  and 
wonder  what  you  are  saying  and  doing.  If  now  considered  in  the  light  of  a liberty,  excuse  it  fcr 
the  love  of  poor  old  days.  No  more,  dear  Mr.  Pip,  from 

41  Your  ever  obliged,  and  affectionate  servant, 

“ Biddy.” 

“ P.S.  He  wishes  me  most  particular  to  write  what  larks.  He  says  you  will  understand.  I 
hope  and  do  not  doubt  it  will  be  agreeable  to  see  him  even  though  a gentleman,  for  you  had  ever  * 
good  heart,  and  he  is  a worthy  worthy  man.  I have  read  him  all  excepting  only  the  last  little 
sentence,  and  he  wishes  me  most  particular  to  write  again  -what  larks.'' 

I received  this  letter  by  post  on  Monday  morning,  and  therefore  its  appointment 
was  for  next  day.  Let  me  confess  exactly,  with  what  feelings  I looked  forward 
Toe’s  coming. 


35° 


Great  Expectations, 


Not  with  pleasure,  though  I was  bound  to  him  by  so  many  ties  ; no ; with  con- 
siderable disturbance,  some  mortification,  and  a keen  sense  of  incongruity.  If  I 
could  have  kept  him  away  by  paying  money,  I certainly  would  have  paid  money 
My  greatest  reassurance  was,  that  he  was  coming  to  Barnard’s  Inn,  not  to 
Hammersmith,  and  consequently  would  not  fall  in  Bentley  Drummle’s  way.  1 
had  little  objection  to  his  being  seen  by  Herbert  or  his  father,  for  both  of  vvhoro 
I had  a respect ; but  I had  the  sharpest  sensitiveness  as  to  his  being  seen  by 
Drummle,  whom  I held  in  contempt.  So,  throughout  life,  our  worst  weaknesses 
and  meannesses  are  usually  committed  for  the  sake  of  the  people  whom  we  most 
despise. 

I had  begun  to  be  always  decorating  the  chambers  in  some  quite  unnecessary 
and  inappropriate  way  or  other,  and  very  expensive  those  wrestles  with  Barnard 
proved  to  be.  By  this  time,  the  rooms  were  vastly  different  from  what  I had  found 
them,  and  I enjoyed  the  honour  of  occupying  a few  prominent  pages  in  the  books 
of  a neighbouring  upholsterer.  I had  got  on  so  fast  of  late,  that  I had  even 
started  a boy  in  boots — top  boots — in  bondage  and  slavery  to  whom  I might  be 
said  to  pass  my  days.  For,  after  I had  made  this  monster  (out  of  the  refuse  of 
my  washerwoman’s  family)  and  had  clothed  him  with  a blue  coat,  canary  waist- 
coat, white  cravat,  creamy  breeches,  and  the  boots  already  mentioned,  I had  to 
find  him  a little  to  do  and  a great  deal  to  eat ; and  with  both  of  these  horrible 
requirements  he  haunted  my  existence. 

This  avenging  phantom  was  ordered  to  be  on  duty  at  eight  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing in  the  hall  (it  was  two  feet  square,  as  charged  for  floorcloth),  and  Herbert 
suggested  certain  things  for  breakfast  that  he  thought  Joe  would  like.  While  I 
felt  sincerely  obliged  to  him  for  being  so  interested  and  considerate,  I had  an  odd 
half-provoked  sense  of  suspicion  upon  me,  that  if  Joe  had  been  coming  to  see 
him , he  wouldn’t  have  been  quite  so  brisk  about  it. 

However,  I came  into  town  on  the  Monday  night  to  be  ready  for  Joe,  and  I got 
up  early  in  the  morning,  and  caused  the  sitting-room  and  breakfast-table  to  assume 
their  most  splendid  appearance.  Unfortunately  the  morning  was  drizzly,  and  an 
angel  could  not  have  concealed  the  fact  that  Barnard  was  shedding  sooty  tears 
outside  the  window,  like  some  weak  giant  of  a Sweep, 

As  the  time  approached  I should  have  liked  to  run  away,  but  the  Avenger 
pursuant  to  orders  was  in  the  hall,  and  presently  I heard  Joe,  on  the  staircase.  I 
knew  it  was  Joe,  by  his  clumsy  manner  of  coming  up-stairs — his  state  boots  being 
always  too  big  for  him — and  by  the  time  it  took  him  to  read  the  names  on  the 
other  floors  in  the  course  of  his  ascent.  When  at  last  he  stopped  outside  our 
door,  I could  hear  his  finger  tracing  over  the  painted  letters  of  my  name,  and  I 
afterwards  distinctly  heard  him  breathing  in  at  the  keyhole.  Finally  he  gave  a 
faint  single  rap,  and  Pepper — such  was  the  compromising  name  of  the  avenging 
boy — announced  “Mr.  Gargery  !”  I thought  he  never  would  have  done  wiping 
his  feet,  and  that  I must  have  gone  out  to  lift  him  off  the  mat,  but  at  last  he 
came  in. 

“ Joe,  how  are  you,  Joe  ?” 

“ Pip,  how  air  you,  Pip  ?” 

With  his  good  honest  face  all  glowing  and  shining,  and  his  hat  put  down  on 
the  floor  between  us,  he  caught  both  my  hands  and  worked  them  straight  up  and 
down,  as  if  I had  been  the  last-patented  Pump. 

“ I am  glad  to  see  you,  Joe.  Give  me  your  hat.” 

But  Joe,  taking  it  up  carefully  with  both  hands,  like  a bird’s-nest  with  eggs  in 
it,  wouldn’t  heai  of  parting  with  that  piece  of  property,  and  persisted  in  standing 
Klking  over  it  in  a most  uncomfortable  way. 

<4Whi.h  you  have  that  growed,”  said  Joe,  “ and  that  swelled,  and  that  gentl©» 


35* 


Joe  come > to  Barnard1  s Inn . 

folked ;”  Joe  considered  a little  before  he  discovered  this  word  ; “as  to  besure 
you  are  a honour  to  your  king  and  country.” 

“And  you,  Joe,  look  wonderfully  well.” 

“Thank  God,”  said  Joe,  “I’m  ekerval  to  most.  And  your  sister,  she’s  no 
worse  than  she  were.  And  Biddy,  she’s  ever  right  and  ready.  And  all  friends  is 
no  backerder,  if  not  no  foi  aider.  ’Ceptin’  Wopsle  : he’s  had  a drop.” 

All  this  time  (still  with  both  hands  taking  great  care  of  the  bird’s-nest),  Joe 
was  rolling  his  eyes  round  and  round  the  room,  and  round  and  round  the  flowered 
'pattern  of  my  dressing-gown. 

Had  a drop,  Joe  ?” 

“ Why  yes,”  said  Joe,  lowering  his  voice,  “ he’s  left  the  Church  and  went  into 
the  playacting.  Which  the  playacting  have  likewise  brought  him  to  London  along 
with  me.  And  his  wish  were,”  said  Joe,  getting  the  bird’s-nest  under  his  left 
arm  for  the  moment,  and  groping  in  it  for  an  egg  with  his  right;  “if  no  offence, 
as  I would,  and  you  that.” 

I took  what  Joe  gave  me,  and  found  it  to  be  the  crumpled  playbill  of  a small 
metropolitan  theatre,  announcing  the  first  appearance,  in  that  very  week,  of  “ the 
celebrated  Provincial  Amateur  of  Roscian  rrnown,  whose  unique  performance  in 
the  highest  tragic  walk  of  our  National  Bard  has  lately  -occasioned  so  great  a 
sensation  in  local  dramatic  circles.” 

“ Were  you  at  his  performance,  Joe  ?”  I inquired. 

“ I were”  said  Joe,  with  emphasis  and  solemnity. 

“Was  there  a great  sensation  ?” 

“ Why,”  said  Joe,  “ yes,  there  certainly  were  a peck  of  orange-peel.  Partickler 
when  he  see  the  ghost.  Though  I put  it  to  yourself,  sir,  whether  it  were  calc’lated 
to  keep  a man  up  to  his  work  with  a good  hart,  to  be  continiwally  cutting  in 
betwixt  him  and  the  Ghost  with  ‘ Amen  !’  A man  may  have  had  a misfortun’  and 
been  in  the  Church,”  said  Joe,  lowering  his  voice  to  an  argumentative  and  feeling 
tone,  “ but  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  put  him  out  at  such  a time.  Which 
I meantersay,  if  the  ghost  of  a man’s  own  father  cannot  be  allowed  to  claim  his 
attention,  what  can,  Sir  ? Still  more,  when  his  mourning  ’at  is  unfortunately 
made  so  small  as  that  the  weight  of  the  black  feathers  brings  it  off,  try  to  keep  it 
on  how  you  may.” 

A ghost-seeing  effect  in  Joe’s  own  countenance  informed  me  that  Herbert  had 
entered  the  room.  So,  I presented  Joe  to  Herbert,  who  held  out  his  hand  ; but 
Joe  backed  from  it,  and  held  on  by  the  bird’s-nest. 

“Your  servant,  Sir,”  said  Joe,  “ which  I hope  as  you  and  Pip  ” — here  his  eye 
fell  on  the  Avenger,  whp  was  putting  some  toast  on  table,  and  so  plainly  denoted 
an  intention  to  make  that  young  gentleman  one  of  the  family,  that  I frowned  it 
down  and  confused  him  more — “ I meantersay,  you  two  gentlemen — which  I hope 
as  you  gets  your  elths  in  this  close  spot  ? For  the  present  may  be  a wery  good 
inn,  according  to  London  opinions,”  said  Joe,  confidentially,  “ and  I believe  it’s 
character  do  stand  i ; but  I wouldn’t  keep  a pig  in  it  myself — not  in  the  case 
that  I wished  him  to  fatten  wholesome  and  to  eat  with  a meller  flavour  on 
him.” 

Having  borne  this  flattering  testimony  to  the  merits  of  our  dwelling-place,  and 
having  incidentally  shown  this  tendency  to  call  me  “sir,”  Joe,  being  invited  to 
sit  down  to  table,  looked  all  round  the  room  for  a suitable  spot  on  which  to  deposit 
his  hat — as  if  it  were  only  on  some  few  very  rare  substances  in  nature  that  it  could 
find  a resting  place — and  ultimately  stood  it  on  an  extreme  corner  of  the  chimney* 
piece,  from  which  it  ever  afterwards  fell  off  at  intervals. 

“ Do  you  take  tea,  or  coffee,  Mr.  Gargery  ?”  asked  Herbert,  who  always  pre* 
sided  of  a morning. 


352  Great  Expectations . 


“Thankee,  Sir,”  said  Joe,  stiff  from  head  to  foot,  “ 1*11  take  whichever  is  most 
igreeable  to  yourself.” 

“ What  do  you  say  to  coffee  ?” 

“ Thankee,  Sir,”  returned  Joe,  evidently  dispirited  by  the  proposal,  “since  you 
%re  so  kind  as  make  chice  of  coffee,  I will  not  run  contrairy  to  your  own  opinions. 
But  don’t  you  never  find  it  a little  ’eating  ?” 

“ Say  tea,  then,”  said  Herbert,  pouring  it  out. 

Here  Joe’s  hat  tumbled  off  the  mantel-piece,  and  he  started  out  of  his  chair  and 
picked  it  up,  and  fitted  it  to  the  same  exact  spot.  As  if  it  were  an  absolute  point 
of  good  breeding  that  it  should  tumble  off  again  soon. 

“ When  did  you  come  to  town,  Mr.  Gargery  ?” 

“ Were  it  yesterday  afternoon  ?”  said  Joe,  after  coughing  behind  his  hand  as  if 
he  had  had  time  to  catch  the  whooping-cough  since  he  came.  “ No  it  were  not. 
Yes  it  were.  Yes.  It  were  yesterday  afternoon  ” (with  an  appearance  of  mingled 
wisdom,  relief,  and  strict  impartiality). 

“ Have  you  seen  anything  of  London,  yet  ?” 

“ Why,  yes,  Sir,”  said  Joe,  “ me  and  Wopsle  went  off  straight  to  look  at  the 
Blacking  Ware’us.  But  we  didn’t  find  that  it  come  up  to  its  likeness  in  the  red 
bills  at  the  shop  doors  : which  I meantersay,”  added  Joe,  in  an  explanatory 
manner,  “as  it  is  there  drawd  too  architectooralooral.” 

I really  believe  Joe  would  have  prolonged  this  word  (mightily  expressive  to  my 
mind  of  some  architecture  that  I know)  into  a perfect  Chorus,  but  for  his  attention 
being  providentially  attracted  by  his  hat,  which  was  toppling.  Indeed,  it  demanded 
from  him  a constant  attention,  and  a quickness  of  eye  and  hand,  very  like  that 
exacted  by  wicket-keeping.  He  made  extraordinary  play  with  it,  and  showed  the 
greatest  skill ; now,  rushing  at  it  and  catching  it  neatly  as  it  dropped  ; now,  merely 
stopping  it  midway,  beating  it  up,  and  humouring  it  in  various  parts  of  the  room 
and  against  a good  deal  of  the  pattern  of  the  paper  on  the  wall,  before  he  felt  it 
safe  to  close  with  it ; finally  splashing  it  into  the  slop-basin,  where  I took  the 
liberty  of  laying  hands  upon  it. 

As  to  his  shirt-collar,  and  his  coat-collar,  they  were  perplexing  to  reflect  upon 
—insoluble  mysteries  both.  Why  should  a man  scrape  himself  to  that  extent,  before 
he  could  consider  himself  full  dressed  ? Why  should  he  suppose  it  necessary  to  be 
purified  by  suffering  for  his  holiday  clothes  ? Then  he  fell  into  such  unaccountable 
fits  of  meditation,  with  his  fork  midway  between  his  plate  and  his  mouth  ; had  his 
eyes  attracted  in  such  strange  directions;  was  afflicted  with  such  remarkable  coughs ; 
sat  so  far  from  the  table,  and  dropped  so  much  more  than  he  ate,  and  pretended  that 
he  hadn’t  dropped  it ; that  I was  heartily  glad  when  Herbert  left  us  for  the  city. 

I had  neither  the  good  sense  nor  the  good  feeling  to  know  that  this  was  all 
my  fault,  and  that  if  I had  been  easier  with  Joe,  Joe  would  have  been  easier  with 
me.  I felt  impatient  of  him  and  out  of  temper  with  him  ; in  which  condition  he 
heaped  coals  of  fire  on  my  head. 

“ Us  two  being  now  alone,  Sir  ” — began  Joe. 

“Joe,”  1 interrupted,  pettishly,  “how  can  you  call  me  Sir  ?” 

Joe  looked  at  me  for  a single  instant  with  something  faintly  like  reproach. 
Utterly  preposterous  as  his  cravat  was,  and  as  his  collars  were,  I was  conscious  of 
a sort  of  dignity  in  the  look. 

“ Us  two  being  now  alone,”  resumed  Joe,  “ and  me  having  the  intentions  and 
abilities  to  stay  not  many  minutes  more,  I will  now  conclude — leastways  begin — 
to  mention  what  have  led  to  my  having  had  the  present  honour.  For  was  it  not,” 
said  Joe,  with  his  old  air  of  lucid  exposition,  “that  my  only  wish  were  to  be  useful 
to  you,  I should  not  have  had  the  honour  of  breaking  wittles  in  the  company  and 
abode  of  gentlemen.” 


353 


Joe  s message  from  Miss  Havisham, 

I was  so  unwilling  to  see  the  look  again,  that  I made  no  remonstrance  against 
tills  tone. 

“Well,  Sir,”  pursued  Joe,  “this  is  how  it  were.  I were  at  the  Bargemen 
t’other  night,  Pip  whenever  he  subsided  into  affection,  he  called  me  Pip,  and 
whenever  he  relapsed  into  politeness  he  called  me  Sir  ; “ when  there  come  up  in 
his  shay-cart  Pumblechook.  Which  that  same  identical,”  said  Joe,  going  down  a 
new  track,  “ do  comb  my  ’air  the  wrong  way  sometimes,  awful,  by  giving  out  up 
and  down  town  as  it  were  him  which  ever  had  your  infant  companionation  and 
were  looked  upon  as  a playfellow  by  yourself.” 

“Nonsense.  It  was  you,  Joe.” 

44  Which  I fully  believed  it  were,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  slightly  tossing  his  head, 
“ though  it  signify  little  now,  Sir.  Well,  Pip  : this  same  identical,  which  his 
manners  is  given  to  blusterous,  come  to  me  at  the  Bargemen  (wot  a pipe  and  a 
pint  of  beer  do  give  refreshment  to  the  working-man,  Sir,  and  do  not  over  stimu- 
late), and  his  word  were,  ‘ Joseph,  Miss  Havisham  she  wish  to  speak  to  you.’  ” 

“ Miss  Havisham,  Joe  ?” 

“ 4 She  wished,’  were  Pumblechook’s  word,  4 to  speak  to  you.’  ” Joe  sat  and 
rolled  his  eyes  at  the  ceiling. 

“ Yes,  Joe  ? Go  on,  please.” 

“ Next  day,  Sir,”  said  Joe,  looking  at  me  as  if  I were  a long  way  off,  “ having 
cleaned  myself,  I go  and  I see  Miss  A.” 

“ Miss  A.,  Joe  ? Miss  Havisham  ?” 

“ Which  I say,  Sir,”  replied  Joe,  with  an  air  of  legal  formality,  as  if  he  were 
making  his  will,  “ Miss  A.,  or  otherways  Havisham.  Her  expression  air  then  as 
follering:  ‘ Mr.  Gargery.  You  air  in  correspondence  with  Mr.  Pip?’  Having 
had  a letter  from  you,  I were  able  to  say  4 I am.’  (When  I married  your  sister, 
Sir,  I said  * I will and  when  I answered  your  friend,  Pip,  I said,  ‘ I am.’) 
4 Would  you  tell  him,  then,’  said  she,  4 that  which  Esteila  has  come  home,  and 
would  be  glad  to  see  him.’  ” 

I felt  my  face  fire  up  as  I looked  at  Joe.  I hope  one  remote  cause  of  its 
firing,  may  have  been  my  consciousness  that  if  I had  known  his  errand,  I should 
have  given  him  more  encouragement. 

“Biddy,”  pursued  Joe,  “ when  I got  home  and  asked  her  fur  to  write  the 
message  to  you,  a little  hung  back.  Biddy  says,  4 1 know  he  will  be  very  glad  to 
have  it  by  word  of  mouth,  it  is  holiday-time,  you  want  to  see  him,  go  !’  I have 
now  concluded,  Sir,”  said  Joe,  rising  from  his  chair,  44  and,  Pip,  I wish  you  ever 
well  and  ever  prospering  to  a greater  and  greater  height.” 

44  But  you  are  not  going  now,  Joe  ?” 

44  Yes  I am,”  said  Joe. 

44  But  you  are  coming  back  to  dinner,  Joe  ?” 

44  No  I am  not,”  said  Joe. 

Our  eyes  met,  and  all  the  44  Sir  ” melted  out  of  that  manly  heart  as  he  gave  me 
his  hand. 

44  Pip,  dear  old  chap,  life  is  made  of  ever  so  many  partings  welded  together,  as 
/ may  say,  and  one  man’s  a blacksmith,  and  one’s  a whitesmith,  and  one’s  a gold- 
smith, and  one ’s  a coppersmith.  Diwisions  among  such  must  come,  and  must  be 
met  as  they  come.  If  there’s  been  any  fault  at  all  to-day,  it’s  mine.  You  and  me 
is  not  two  figures  to  be  together  in  London ; nor  yet  anywheres  else  but  what  is 
private,  and  beknown,  and  understood  among  friends.  It  ain’t  that  I am  proud, 
but  that  I want  to  be  right,  as  you  shall  never  see  me  no  more  in  these  clothes. 
I’m  wrong  in  these  clothes.  I’m  wrong  out  of  the  forge,  the  kitchen,  or  off  til’ 
meshes.  You  won’t  find  half  so  much  fault  in  me  if  you  think  of  me  in  my 
orge  dress,  with  my  hammer  in  my  hand,  or  even  my  pipe.  You  won’t  find  hail 

A A 


354 


Great  Expectations . 


bo  much  fault  in  me  if,  supposing  as  you  should  ever  wish  to  see  me,  you  come  and 
put  your  head  in  at  the  forge  window  and  see  Joe  the  blacksmith,  there,  aft 
the  old  anvil,  in  the  old  burnt  apron,  sticking  to  the  old  work.  I’m  awful  dull, 
but  I hope  I’ve  beat  out  something  nigh  the  rights  of  this  at  last.  And  so  God 
bless  you,  dear  old  Pip,  old  chap,  God  bless  you !” 

I had  not  been  mistaken  in  my  fancy  that  there  was  a simple  dignity  in  him. 
The  fashion  of  his  dress  could  no  more  come  in  its  way  when  he  spoke  these 
words,  than  it  could  come  in  its  way  in  Heaven.  He  t cached  me  gently  on 
the  forehead,  and  went  out.  As  soon  as  I could  recover  myself  sufficiently,  I 
hurried  out  after  him  and  looked  for  him  in  the  neighbouring  streets;  but  he 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

It  was  clear  that  I must  repair  to  our  town  next  day,  and  in  the  first  flow  of 
my  repentance  it  was  equally  clear  that  I must  stay  at  Joe’s.  But,  when  I had 
secured  my  box-place  by  to-morrow’s  coach,  and  had  been  down  to  Mr.  Pocket’s 
and  back,  I was  not  by  any  means  convinced  on  the  last  point,  and  began  to 
invent  reasons  and  make  excuses  for  putting  up  at  the  Blue  Boar.  I should  be 
an  inconvenience  at  Joe’s ; I was  not  expected,  and  my  bed  would  not  be  ready ; 
I should  be  too  far  from  Miss  Havisham’s,  and  she  was  exacting  and  mightn’t 
like  it.  All  other  swindlers  upon  earth  are  nothing  to  the  self>swindlers,  and 
with  such  pretences  did  I cheat  myself.  Surely  a curious  thing.  That  I should 
innocently  take  a bad  half-crown  of  somebody  else’s  manufacture,  is  reasonable 
enough  ; but  that  I should  knowingly  reckon  the  spurious  coin  of  my  own  make, 
as  good  money  ! An  obliging  stranger,  under  pretence  of  compactly  folding  up 
my  bank-notes  for  security’s  sake,  abstracts  the  notes  and  gives  me  nutshells  ; 
but  what  is  his  sleight  of  hand  to  mine,  when  I fold  up  my  own  nutshells  and 
pass  them  on  myself  as  notes  ! 

Having  settled  that  I must  go  to  the  Blue  Boar,  my  mind  was  much  disturbed 
by  indecision  whether  or  no  to  take  the  Avenger.  It  was  tempting  to  think  of 
that  expensive  Mercenary  publicly  airing  his  boots  in  the  archway  of  the  Blue 
Boar’s  posting-yard : it  was  almost  solemn  to  imagine  him  casually  produced  in 
the  tailor’s  shop  and  confounding  the  disrespectful  senses  of  Trabb’s  boy.  On 
the  other  hand,  Trabb’s  boy  might  worm  himself  into  his  intimacy  and  tell  him 
things ; or,  reckless  and  desperate  wretch  as  I knew  he  could  be,  might  hoot 
him  in  the  High-street.  My  patroness,  too,  might  hear  of  him,  and  not  approve. 
On  the  whole,  I resolved  to  leave  the  Avenger  behind. 

It  was  the  afternoon  coach  by  which  I had  taken  my  place,  and,  as  winter 
had  now  come  round,  I should  not  arrive  at  my  destination  until  two  or  three 
hours  after  dark.  Our  time  of  starting  from  the  Cross  Keys  was  two  o’clock. 
I arrived  on  the  ground  with  a quarter  of  an  hour  to  spare,  attended  by  the 
Avenger — if  I may  connect  that  expression  with  one  who  never  attended  on  me 
if  he  could  possibly  help  it. 

At  that  time  it  was  customary  to  carry  Convicts  down  to  the  dockyards  by 
stage-coach.  As  I had  often  heard  of  them  in  the  capacity  of  outside  passengers, 
and  had  more  than  once  seen  them  on  the  high  road  dangling  their  ironed  legs 
over  the  coach  roof,  I had  no  cause  to  be  surprised  when  Herbert,  meeting  me 
in  the  yard,  came  up  and  told  me  there  were  two  convicts  going  down  with  me. 
But  I had  a reason  that  was  an  old  reason  now,  for  constitutionally  faltering 
whenever  I heard  the  word  convict. 


Convicts  outside  the  Coach . 


355 


“ You  don’t  mind  them,  Handel?”  said  Herbert. 

“ Oh  no  ! ” 

“ I thought  you  seemed  as  if  you  didn’t  like  them  ? ” 

€t  I can’t  pretend  that  I do  like  them,  and  I suppose  you  don’t  particularly. 
But  I don’t  mind  them.” 

“ See  ! There  they  are,”  said  Herbert,  “ coming  out  of  the  Tap.  What  a 
degraded  and  vile  sight  it  is  ! ” 

They  had  been  treating  their  guard,  I suppose,  for  they  had  a gaoler  with  them, 
and  all  three  came  out  wiping  their  mouths  on  their  hands.  The  two  convicts 
were  handcuffed  together,  and  had  irons  on  their  legs — irons  of  a pattern  that  I 
knew  well.  They  wore  the  dress  that  I likewise  knew  well.  Their  keeper  had  a 
brace  of  pistols,  and  carried  a thick-knobbed  bludgeon  under  his  arm  ; but  he  was 
on  terms  of  good  understanding  with  them,  and  stood,  with  them  beside  him, 
looking  on  at  the  putting-to  of  the  horses,  rather  with  an  air  as  if  the  convicts 
were  an  interesting  Exhibition  not  formally  open  at  the  moment,  and  he  the 
Curator.  One  was  a taller  and  stouter  man  than  the  other,  and  appeared  as  a 
matter  of  course,  according  to  the  mysterious  ways  of  the  world  both  convict  and 
free,  to  have  had  allotted  to  him  the  smaller  suit  of  clothes.  His  arms  and  legs 
were  like  great  pincushions  of  those  shapes,  and  his  attire  disguised  him  absurdly; 
but  I knew  his  half-closed  eye  at  one  glance.  There  stood  the  man  whom  I had 
seen  on  the  settle  at  the  Three  Jolly  Bargemen  on  a Saturday  night,  and  who  had 
brought  me  down  with  his  invisible  gun ! 

It  was  easy  to  make  sure  that  as  yet  he  knew  me  no  more  than  if  he  had  never 
seen  me  in  his  life.  He  looked  across  at  me,  and  his  eye  appraised  my  watch- 
chain,  and  then  he  incidentally  spat  and  said  something  to  the  other  convict,  and 
they  laughed  and  slued  themselves  round  with  a clink  of  their  coupling  manacle, 
and  looked  at  something  else.  The  great  numbers  on  their  backs,  as  if  they  were 
street  doors ; their  coarse  mangy  ungainly  outer  surface,  as  if  they  were  lower 
animals ; their  ironed  legs,  apologetically  garlanded  with  pocket-handkerchiefs ; 
and  the  way  in  which  all  present  looked  at  them  and  kept  from  them  ; made  them 
(as  Herbert  had  said)  a most  disagreeable  and  degraded  spectacle. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  It  came  out  that  the  whole  of  the  back  of  the 
coach  had  been  taken  by  a family  removing  from  London,  and  that  there  were  no 
places  for  the  two  prisoners  but  on  the  seat  in  front,  behind  the  coachman.  Here- 
upon, a choleric  gentleman,  who  had  taken  the  fourth  place  on  that  seat,  flew  into 
a most  violent  passion,  and  said  that  it  was  a breach  of  contract  to  mix  him  up  with 
such  villainous  company,  and  that  it  was  poisonous  and  pernicious  and  infamous 
and  shameful,  and  I don’t  know  what  else.  At  this  time  the  coach  was  ready  and 
the  coachman  impatient,  and  we  were  all  preparing  to  get  up,  and  the  prisoners 
had  come  over  with  their  keeper — bringing  with  them  that  curious  flavour  of  bread- 
poultice,  baize,  rope-yarn,  and  hearthstone,  which  attends  the  convict  presence. 

“ Don’t  take  it  so  much  amiss,  sir,”  pleaded  the  keeper  to  the  angry  passenger  ; 
“ I’ll  sit  next  you  myself.  I’ll  put  ’em  on  the  outside  of  the  row.  They  won’t 
interfere  with  you,  sir.  You  needn’t  know  they’re  there.” 

“ And  don’t  blame  meC  growled  the  convict  I had  recognised.  “ / don’t  want 
to  go.  I am  quite  ready  to  stay  behind.  As  fur  as  I am  concerned  any  one’s 
welcome  to  my  place.” 

“ Or  mine,”  said  the  other,  gruffly.  “ / wou  ldn’t  have  incommoded  none  of 
you,  if  I’d  a had  my  way.”  Then,  they  both  laughed,  and  began  cracking  nuts, 
and  spitting  the  shells  about. — As  I really  think  I should  have  liked  to  do  myself, 
if  I had  been  in  their  place  and  so  despised. 

At  length,  it  was  voted  that  there  was  no  help  for  the  angry  gentleman,  and 
that  he  must  either  go  in  his  chance  company  or  remain  behind.  So,  lie  got  irV) 


356 


Great  Expectations. 


his  place,  still  making  complaints,  and  the  keeper  got  into  the  place  next  him, 
End  the  convicts  hauled  themselves  up  as  well  as  they  could,  and  the  convict  I had 
recognised  sat  behind  me  with  his  breath  on  the  hair  of  my  head. 

“ Good-bye,  Handel ! ” Herbert  called  out  as  we  started.  I thought  what  a 
blessed  fortune  it  was,  that  he  had  found  another  name  for  me  than  Pip. 

It  is  impossible  to  express  with  what  acuteness  I felt  the  convict’s  breathing,  not 
only  on  the  back  of  my  head,  but  all  along  my  spine.  The  sensation  was  lik* 
being  touched  in  the  marrow  with  some  pungent  and  searching  acid,  and  it  set 
my  very  teeth  on  edge.  He  seemed  to  have  more  breathing  business  to  do  than 
another  man,  and  to  make  more  noise  in  doing  it ; and  I was  conscious  of  grow 
ing  high-shouldered  on  one  side,  in  my  shrinking  endeavours  to  fend  him  off. 

The  weather  was  miserably  raw,  and  the  two  cursed  the  cold.  It  made  us  all 
lethargic  before  we  had  gone  far,  and  when  we  had  left  the  Half-way  House  behind, 
we  habitually  dozed  and  shivered  and  were  silent.  I dozed  off,  myself,  in  con- 
sidering the  question  whether  I ought  to  restore  a couple  of  pounds  sterling  to 
this  creature  before  losing  sight  of  him,  and  how  it  could  best  be  done.  In  the 
act  of  dipping  forward  as  if  I were  going  to  bathe  among  the  horses,  I woke  in  a 
fright  and  took  the  question  up  again. 

But  I must  have  lost  it  longer  than  I had  thought,  since,  although  I could  recog- 
nise nothing  in  the  darkness  and  the  fitful  lights  and  shadows  of  our  lamps,  I traced 
marsh  country  in  the  cold  damp  wind  that  blew  at  us.  Cowering  forward  for 
warmth  and  to  make  me  a screen  against  the  wind,  the  convicts  were  closer  to  me 
than  before.  The  very  first  words  I heard  them  interchange  as  I became  conscious, 
were  the  words  of  my  own  thought,  “ Two  One  Pound  notes.” 

“ How  did  he  get  ’em  ?”  said  the  convict  I had  never  seen. 

How  should  I know  ?”  returned  the  other.  “ He  had  ’em  stowed  away  some- 
hows.  Giv  him  by  friends,  I expect.” 

“I  wish,”  said  the  other,  with  a bitter  curse  upon  the  cold,  “that  I had  ’em 
here.” 

“ Two  one  pound  notes,  or  friends  ? ” 

“ Two  one  pound  notes.  I’d  sell  all  the  friends  I ever  had,  for  one,  and  think 
it  a blessed  good  bargain.  Well  ? So  he  says ? ” 

“ So  he  says,”  resumed  the  convict  I had  recognised — “it  was  all  said  and 
done  in  half  a minute,  behind  a pile  of  timber  in  the  Dockyard — 4 You’re  a going 
to  be  discharged  ! * Yes,  I was.  Would  I find  out  that  boy  that  had  fed  him 
and  kep  his  secret,  and  give  him  them  two  one  pound  notes  ? Yes  I would. 
And  I did.” 

“ More  fool  you,”  growled  the  other.  “ I’d  have  spent  ’em  on  a Man,  in 
wittles  and  drink.  He  must  have  been  a green  one.  Mean  to  say  he  knowed 
nothing  of  you  ? ” 

‘‘Not  a ha’porth.  Different  gangs  and  different  ships.  He  was  tiled  again  for 
prison  breaking,  and  got  made  a Lifer.” 

“And  was  that — Honour! — the  only  time  you  worked  out,  in  this  part  of  the 
'ountry  ? ” 

“The  only  time.” 

“ What  might  have  been  your  opinion  of  the  place  ? ” 

“A  most  beastly  place.  Mudbank,  mist,  swamp,  and  woik  : work,  swamp, 
nist,  and  mudbank.” 

They  both  execrated  the  place  in  very  strong  language,  and  gradually  growled 
themselves  out,  and  had  nothing  left  to  say. 

After  overhearing  this  dialogue,  I should  assuredly  have  got  down  and  been 
left  in  the  solitude  and  darkness  of  the  highway,  but  for  feeling  certain  that  *he 
man  had  no  suspicion  cf  my  identity.  Indeed,  I was  not  only  so  changed  in  the 


Pumbiechook , the  founder  of  my  fortunes  f 


357 


course  of  nature,  but  so  differently  dressed  and  so  differently  circumstanced,  that 
it  was  not  at  all  likely  he  could  have  known  me  without  accidental  help.  Still, 
the  coincidence  of  our  being  together  on  the  coach,  was  sufficiently  strange  to  fill 
me  with  a dread  that  some  other  coincidence  might  at  any  moment  connect  me, 
in  his  hearing,  with  my  name.  For  this  reason,  I resolved  to  alight  as  soon  as 
we  touched  the  town,  and  put  myself  out  of  his  hearing.  This  device  I executed 
successfully.  My  little  portmanteau  was  in  the  boot  under  my  feet ; I had  but  to 
turn  a hinge  to  get  it  out ; I threw  it  down  before  me,  got  down  after  it,  and  was 
left  at  the  first  lamp  on  the  first  stones  of  the  town  pavement.  As  to  the  convicts, 
they  went  their  way  with  the  coach,  and  I knew  at  what  point  they  would  be 
spirited  off  to  the  river.  In  my  fancy,  I saw  the  boat  with  its  covict  crew  waiting 
for  them  at  the  slime-washed  stairs, — again  heard  the  gruff  “ Give  way,  you  ! ” 
like  an  order  to  dogs — again  saw  the  wicked  Noah’s  Ark  lying  out  on  the  black 
water. 

I could  not  have  said  what  I was  afraid  ot,  for  my  fear  was  altogether  undefined 
and  vague,  but  there  was  great  fear  upon  me.  As  I walked  on  to  the  hotel,  I felt 
that  a dread,  much  exceeding  the  mere  apprehension  of  a painful  or  disagreeable 
recognition,  made  me  tremble.  I am  confident  that  it  took  no  distinctness  of 
shape,  and  that  it  was  the  revival  for  a few  minutes  of  the  terror  of  childhood. 

The  coffee-room  at  the  Blue  Boar  was  empty,  and  I had  not  only  ordered  my 
dinner  there,  but  had  sat  down  to  it,  before  the  waiter  knew  me.  As  soon  as  he 
had  apologised  for  the  remissness  of  his  memory,  he  asked  me  if  he  should  send 
Boots  for  Mr.  Pumbiechook  ? 

“No,”  said  I,  “certainly  not.” 

The  waiter  (it  was  he  who  had  brought  up  the  Great  Remonstrance  from  the 
Commercials  on  the  day  when  I was  bound)  appeared  surprised,  and  took  the 
earliest  opportunity  of  putting  a dirty  old  copy  of  a local  newspaper  so  directly  in 
my  way,  that  I took  it  up  and  read  this  paragraph  : 

“Our  readers  will  learn,  not  altogether  without  interest,  in  reference  to  the 
recent  romantic  rise  in  fortune  of  a young  artificer  in  iron  of  this  neighbourhood 
(what  a theme,  by  the  way,  for  the  magic  pen  of  our  as  yet  not  universally 
acknowledged  townsman  Tooby,  the  poet  of  our  columns !)  that  the  youth’s 
earliest  patron,  companion,  and  friend,  was  a highly-respected  individual  not 
entirely  unconnected  with  the  corn  and  seed  trade,  and  whose  eminently  con- 
venient and  commodious  business  premises  are  situate  within  a hundred  miles  of 
the  High-street.  It  is  not  wholly  irrespective  of  our  personal  feelings  that  we 
record  Him  as  the  Mentor  of  our  young  Telemachus,  for  it  is  good  to  know  that 
our  town  produced  the  founder  of  the  latter’s  fortunes.  Does  the  thought-con- 
tracted brow  of  the  local  Sage  or  the  lustrous  eye  of  local  Beauty  inquire  whose 
fortunes  ? We  believe  that  Quintin  Matsys  was  the  Blacksmith  of  Antwerp. 
Verb.  Sap.” 

I entertain  a conviction,  based  upon  large  experience,  that  if  in  the  days  of  m} 
prosperity  I had  gone  to  the  North  Pole,  I should  have  met  somebody  there, 
wandering  Esquimaux  or  civilised  man,  who  would  have  told  me  that  Pumul^ 
chook  was  my  earliest  patron  and  the  founder  of  my  fortunes. 


35» 


Great  Expectations . 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Betimes  in  the  morning  I was  up  and  out.  It  was  too  early  yet  to  go  to  Miss 
Havisham’s,  so  I loitered  into  the  country  on  Miss  Havisham’s  side  of  town — 
which  was  not  Joe’s  side;  I could  go  there  to-morrow — thinking  about  my 
patroness,  and  painting  brilliant  pictures  of  her  plans  for  me. 

She  had  adopted  Estella,  she  had  as  good  as  adopted  me,  and  it  could  not  fall 
to  be  her  intention  to  bring  us  together.  She  reserved  it  for  me  to  restore  the 
desolate  house,  admit  the  sunshine  into  the  dark  rooms,  set  the  clocks  a going 
and  the  cold  hearths  a blazing,  tear  down  the  cobwebs,  destroy  the  vermin — in 
short,  do  all  the  shining  deeds  of  the  young  Knight  of  romance,  and  marry  the 
Princess.  I had  stopped  to  look  at  the  house  as  I passed  ; and  its  seared  red 
brick  walls,  blocked  windows,  and  strong  green  ivy  clasping  even  the  stacks  of 
chimneys  with  its  twigs  and  tendons,  as  if  with  sinewy  old  arms,  had  made  up  a 
rich  attractive  mystery,  of  which  I was  the  hero.  Estella  was  the  inspiration  of  it, 
and  the  heart  of  it,  of  course.  But,  though  she  had  taken  such  strong  possession 
of  me,  though  my  fancy  and  my  hope  were  so  set  upon  her,  though  her  influence 
on  my  boyish  life  and  character  had  been  all-powerful,  I did  not,  even  that 
romantic  morning,  invest  her  with  any  attributes  save  those  she  possessed.  I 
mention  this  in  this  place,  of  a fixed  purpose,  because  it  is  the  clue  by  which  I am 
to  be  followed  into  my  poor  labyrinth.  According  to  my  experience,  the  conven- 
tional notion  of  a lover  cannot  be  always  true.  The  unqualified  truth  is,  that 
when  I loved  Estella  with  the  love  of  a man,  I loved  her  simply  because  I found 
her  irresistible.  Once  for  all;  I knew  to  my  sorrow,  often  and  often,  if  not  always, 
that  I loved  her  against  reason,  against  promise,  against  peace,  against  hope, 
against  happiness,  against  all  discouragement  that  could  be.  Once  for  all ; I loved 
her  none  the  less  because  I knew  it,  and  it  had  no  more  influence  in  restraining  me, 
than  if  I had  devoutly  believed  her  to  be  human  perfection. 

I so  shaped  out  my  walk  as  to  arrive  at  the  gate  at  my  old  time.  When  I had 
rung  at  the  bell  with  an  unsteady  hand,  I turned  my  back  upon  the  gate,  while  I 
tried  to  get  my  breath  and  keep  the  beating  of  my  heart  moderately  quiet.  I heard 
the  side  door  open,  and  steps  come  across  the  court-yard ; but  I pretended  not  to 
hear,  even  when  the  gate  swung  on  its  rusty  hinges. 

Being  at  last  touched  on  the  shoulder,  I started  and  turned.  I started  much 
more  naturally  then,  to  find  myself  confronted  by  a man  in  a sober  grey  dress. 
The  last  man  I should  have  expected  to  see  in  that  place  of  porter  at  Miss  Havis- 
ham’s door. 

“Orlick!” 

“Ah,  young  master,  there’s  more  changes  than  yours.  But  come  in,  come  in. 
It’s  opposed  to  my  orders  to  hold  the  gate  open.” 

I entered  and  he  swung  it,  and  locked  it,  and  took  the  key  out.  “ Yes  ! ” said 
he,  facing  round,  after  doggedly  preceding  me  a few  steps  towards  the  house. 
“Here  lam!” 

“How  did  you  come  here  ? ” 

“ I come  here,”  he  retorted,  “ on  my  legs.  I had  my  box  brought  alongside 
me  in  a barrow.” 

“ Are  you  here  for  good  ? ” 

“ I ain’t  here  for  harm,  young  master,  I suppose.” 

I was  not  so  sure  of  that.  I had  leisure  to  entertain  the  retort  in  my  mind, 
while  he  slowly  lifted  his  heavy  glance  from  the  pavement,  up  my  legs  and  arms, 
to  xny  face. 


E \tdla  grown  a Woman . 


359 


“ Then  you  have  left  the  forge  ? ” I said. 

“ Do  this  look  like  a forge  ? ” replied  Orlick,  sending  his  glance  all  round 
him  with  an  air  oi  injury.  “ Now,  do  it  look  like  it  ? ” 

I asked  him  how  long  he  had  left  Gargery’s  forge  ? 

“ One  day  is  so  like  another  here,”  he  replied,  “ that  I doi ’t  know  without  cast* 
ing  it  up.  However,  I come  here  some  time  since  you  left.” 

“I  could  have  told  you  that,  Orlick.” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  he,  drily  “ But  then  you’ve  got  to  be  a scholar.” 

By  this  time  we  had  come  to  the  house,  where  I found  his  room  to  be  one  just 
within  the  side  door,  with  a little  window  in  it  looking  on  the  court-yard.  In  its 
small  proportions,  it  was  not  unlike  the  kind  of  place  usually  assigned  to  a gate- 
porter  in  Paris.  Certain  keys  were  hanging  on  the  wall,  to  which  he  now  added 
the  gate-key;  and  his  patchwork-covered  bed  was  in  a little  inner  division  or  recess. 
The  whole  had  a slovenly,  confined  and  sleepy  look,  like  a cage  for  a human  dor* 
mouse : while  he,  looming  dark  and  heavy  in  the  shadow  of  a corner  by  the  window, 
looked  like  the  human  dormouse  for  whom  it  was  fitted  up — as  indeed  he  was. 

“ I never  saw  this  room  before,”  I remarked  ; “ but  there  used  to  be  no  Porter 
here.” 

“ No,”  said  he  ; “ not  till  it  got  about  that  there  was  no  protection  on  the  pre- 
mises, and  it  come  to  be  considered  dangerous,  with  convicts  and  Tag  and  Rag 
and  Bobtail  going  up  and  down.  And  then  I was  recommended  to  the  place  as  a 
man  who  could  give  another  man  as  good  as  he  brought,  and  I took  it.  It’s 
easier  than  bellow.dng  and  hammering. — That’s  loaded,  that  is.” 

My  eye  had  been  caught  by  a gun  with  a brass  bound  stock  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  his  eye  had  followed  mine. 

“ Well,”,  said  I,  not  desirous  of  more  conversation,  “shall  I go  up  to  Miss 
Havisham  ?” 

“Burn  me,  if  I know  !”  he  retorted,  first  stretching  himself  and  then  shaking 
himself;  “ my  orders  ends  here,  young  master.  I give  this  here  bell  a rap  with 
this  here  hammer,  and  you  go  on  along  the  passage  till  you  meet  somebody.” 

“ I am  expected,  I believe  ?” 

“ Burn  me  twice  over,  if  I can  say  ! ” said  he. 

Upon  that  I turned  down  the  long  passage  which  I had  first  trodden  in  my 
thick  boots,  and  he  made  his  bell  sound.  At  the  end  of  the  passage,  while  the 
bell  was  still  reverberating,  I found  Sarah  Pocket : who  appeared  to  have  now 
become  constitutionally  green  and  yellow  by  reason  of  me. 

“ Oh  ! ” said  she.  “ You,  is  it,  Mr.  Pip  ? ” 

“ It  is,  Miss  Pocket.  I am  glad  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Pocket  and  family  are 
all  well.” 

“Are  they  any  wiser  ? ” said  Sarah,  with  a dismal  shake  of  the  head;  “they 
had  better  be  wiser  than  well.  Ah,  Matthew,  Matthew  ! You  know  your 
way,  sir?” 

Tolerably,  for  I had  gone  up  the  staircase  in  the  dark,  many  a time.  I ascended 
it  now,  in  lighter  boots  than  of  yore,  and  tapped  in  my  old  way  at  the  door 
of  Miss  Havisham’s  room.  “ Pip’s  rap,”  I heard  her  say,  immediately  ; “ come 
in,  Pip.” 

She  was  in  her  chair  near  the  old  table,  in  the  old  dress,  with  her  Awo  hands 
crossed  on  her  stick,  her  chin  resting  on  them,  and  her  eyes  on  the  fire.  Sitting 
near  her,  with  the  white  shoe,  that  had  never  been  worn,  in  her  hand,  and  her 
head  bent  as  she  looked  at  it,  was  an  elegant  lady  whom  I had  never  seen. 

“ Come  in,  Pip,”  Miss  Havisham  continued  to  mutter,  without  looking  round 
or  up  ; “ come  in,  Pip  ; how  do  you  do,  Pip  ? so  you  kiss  ray  hand  as  if  I were  a 
queen,  eh? Well?” 


360  * Great  Expectations . 

She  looked  up  at  me  suddenly,  only  moving  her  eyes,  and  repeated  in  a grimly 
playful  manner, 

“Well?” 

“I  heard,  Miss  Havisham,”  said  I,  rather  at  a loss,  “ that  you  weie  so  kind  as 
fo  wish  me  to  come  and  see  you,  and  I came  directly.” 

“Well?” 

The  lady  whom  I had  never  seen  before,  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  looked  archly  at 
me,  and  then  I saw  that  the  eyes  were  Estella’s  eyes.  But  she  was  so  much 
changed,  was  so  much  more  beautiful,  so  much  more  womanly,  in  all  things 
winning  admiration  had  made  such  wonderful  advance,  that  I seemed  to  have 
made  none.  I fancied,  as  I looked  at  her,  that  I slipped  hopelessly  back  into  tnc 
coarse  and  common  boy  again.  O the  sense  of  distance  and  disparity  that  came 
upon  me,  and  the  inaccessibility  that  came  about  her ! 

She  gave  me  her  hand.  I stammered  something  about  the  pleasure  I felt  in  see- 
ing her  again,  and  about  my  having  looked  forward  to  it  for  a long,  long  time. 

“Do  you  find  her  much  changed,  Pip?”  asked  Miss  Havisham,  with  her 
greedy  look,  and  striking  her  stick  upon  a chair  that  stood  between  them,  a>  a 
sign  to  me  to  sit  down  there. 

“ When  I came  in,  Miss  Havisham,  I thought  there  was  nothing  of  Estella  in 
the  face  or  figure  ; but  now  it  all  settles  down  so  curiously  into  the  old ” 

“ What  ? You  are  not  going  to  say  into  the  old  Estella  ? ” Miss  Havisham 
interrupted.  “ She  was  proud  and  insulting,  and  you  wanted  to  go  away  from 
her.  Don’t  you  remember  ?” 

I said  confusedly  that  that  was  long  ago,  and  that  I knew  no  better  then,  and 
the  like.  Estella  smiled  with  perfect  composure,  and  said  she  had  no  doubt  of  my 
having  been  quite  right,  and  of  her  having  been  very  disagreeable. 

“Is  he  changed  ?”  Miss  Havisham  asked  her. 

“ Very  much,”  said  Estella,  looking  at  me. 

“ Less  coarse  and  common  ?”  said  Miss  Havisham,  playing  with  Estella’s  hair. 

Estella  laughed,  and  looked  at  the  shoe  in  her  hand,  and  laughed  again,  and 
looked  at  me,  and  put  the  shoe  down.  She  treated  me  as  a boy  still,  but  she 
lured  me  on. 

We  sate  in  the  dreamy  room  among  the  old  strange  influences  which  had  so 
wrought  upon  me,  and  I learnt  that  she  had  but  just  come  home  from  France, 
and  that  she  was  going  to  London.  Proud  and  wilful  as  of  old,  she  had  brought 
those  qualities  into  such  subjection  to  her  beauty  that  it  was  impossible  and  out 
of  nature — or  I thought  so — to  separate  them  from  her  beauty.  Truly  it  was  im- 
possible to  dissociate  her  presence  from  all  those  wretched  hankerings  after  money 
and  gentility  that  had  disturbed  my  boyhood — from  all  those  ill-regulated  aspira- 
tions that  had  first  made  me  ashamed  of  home  and  Joe — from  all  those  visions 
that  had  raised  her  face  in  the  glowing  fire,  struck  it  out  of  the  iron  on  the  anvil, 
extracted  it  from  the  darkness  of  night  to  look  in  at  the  wooden  window  of  the 
forge  and  flit  away.  In  a word,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  separate  her,  in  the 
past  or  in  the  present,  from  the  innermost  life  of  my  life. 

It  was  settled  that  I should  stay  there  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  return  to  the 
hotel  at  night,  and  to  London  to-morrow.  When  we  had  conversed  for  a while, 
Miss  Havisham  sent  us  two  out  to  walk  in  the  neglected  garden  : on  our  coming 
in  by-and-bv,  she  said  I should  wheel  her  about  a little,  as  in  times  of  yore. 

So,  Estella  and  I went  out  into  the  garden  by  the  gate  through  which  I had 
strayed  to  my  encounter  with  the  pale  young  gentleman,  now  Herbert ; I,  trem- 
bling in  spirit  and  worshipping  the  very  hem  of  her  dress ; she,  quite  corn  posed 
and  most  decidedly  not  worshipping  the  hem  of  mine.  As  we  drew  near  to  thd 
place  of  encounter,  she  stopped  and  said  : 


Of  whom  does  E stclla  remind  met  361 

“ I must  have  been  a singular  little  creature  to  hide  and  see  that  fight  that  day : 
but  I did,  and  I enjoyed  it  very  much.” 

“ You  rewarded  me  very  much.” 

“Did  I?”  she  replied,  in  an  incidental  and  forgetful  way.  “I  remember  I 
entertained  a great  objection  to  your  adversary,  because  I took  it  ill  that  he  should 
be  brought  here  to  pester  me  with  liis  company.” 

“ He  and  I are  great  friends  now.” 

“ Are  you  ? I think  I recollect  though,  that  you  read  with  his  father  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

I made  the  admission  with  reluctance,  for  it  seemed  to  have  a boyish  look,  and 
she  already  treated  me  more  than  enough  like  a boy. 

“ Since  your  change  of  fortune  and  prospects,  you  have  changed  your  com- 
panions,” said  Estella. 

“ Naturally,”  said  I. 

“ And  necessarily,”  she  added,  in  a haughty  tone  ; “ what  was  fit  company  foi 
you  once,  would  be  quite  unfit  company  for  you  now.” 

In  my  conscience,  I doubt  very  much  whether  I had  any  lingering  intention  left 
of  going  to  see  Joe  ; but  if  I had,  this  observation  put  it  to  flight. 

“you  had  no  idea  of  your  impending  good  fortune,  in  those  times?”  said 
Estella,  with  a slight  wave  of  her  hand,  signifying  the  fighting  times. 

“ Not  the  least.” 

The  air  of  completeness  and  superiority  with  which  she  walked  at  my  side,  and 
the  air  of  youthfulness  and  submission  with  which  I walked  at  hers,  made  a con- 
trast that  I strongly  felt.  It  would  have  rankled  in  me  more  than  it  did,  if  I had 
not  regarded  myself  as  eliciting  it  by  being  so  set  apart  for  her  and  assigned  to  her. 

The  garden  was  too  overgrown  and  rank  for  walking  in  with  ease,  and  after  we 
had  made  the  round  of  it  twice  or  thrice,  we  came  out  again  into  the  brewery  yard. 
I showed  her  to  a nicety  where  I had  seen  her  walking  on  the  casks,  that  first  old 
day,  and  she  said  with  a cold  and  careless  look  in  that  direction,  “Did  I ?”  I 
reminded  her  where  she  had  come  out  of  the  house  and  given  me  my  meat  and 
drink,  and  she  said,  “ I don’t  remember.”  “Not  remember  that  you  made  me 
cry?”  said  I.  “No,”  said  she,  and  shook  her  head  and  looked  about  her.  I 
verily  believe  that  her  not  remembering  and  not  minding  in  the  least,  made  me  cry 
again,  inwardly — and  that  is  the  sharpest  crying  of  all. 

“ You  must  know,”  said  Estella,  condescending  to  me  as  a brilliant  and  beau- 
tiful woman  might,  “that  I have  no  heart — if  that  has  anything  to  do  with  my 
memory.” 

I got  through  some  jargon  to  the  effect  that  I took  the  liberty  of  doubting  that. 
That  I knew  better.  That  there  could  be  no  such  beauty  without  it. 

“ Oh  ! I have  a heart  to  be  stabbed  in  or  shot  in,  I have  no  doubt,”  said  Estella, 
M and,  of  course,  if  it  ceased  to  beat  I should  cease  to  be.  But  you  know  what  I 
mean.  I have  no  softness  there,  no — sympathy — sentiment — nonsense.” 

What  was  it  that  was  borne  in  upon  my  mind  when  she  stood  still  and  looked 
attentively  at  me  ? Anything  that  I had  seen  in  Miss  Havisham  ? No.  In  some 
of  her  looks  and  gestures  there  was  that  tinge  of  resemblance  to  Miss  Havisham 
which  may  often  be  noticed  to  have  been  acquired  by  children,  from  grown  persons 
with  whom  they  have  been  much  associated  and  secluded,  and  which,  when  child- 
hood is  passed,  will  produce  a remarkable  occasional  likeness  of  expression  between 
faces  that  are  otherwise  quite  different.  And  yet  I could  not  trace  this  to  Miss 
Ha\isham.  I looked  again,  and  though  she  was  still  looking  at  me,  the  suggestion 
was  gone. 

What  was  it  ? 

“ I am  serious,”  said  Estella,  not  so  much  with  a frown  (for  her  brow  w*u 


36> 


Great  Expectations. 


smooth)  us  with  a darkening  of  her  face  ; “ if  we  are  to  be  thrown  much  together, 
you  had  better  believe  it  at  once.  No  !”  imperiously  stopping  me  as  I opened  mj 
lips.  “ I have  not  bestowed  my  tenderness  anywhere.  I have  never  had  any  such 
thing.'* 

In  another  moment  we  were  in  the  brewery  so  long  disused,  and  she  pointed  to 
the  high  gallery  where  I had  seen  her  going  out  on  that  same  first  day,  and  told 
me  she  remembered  to  have  been  up  there,  and  to  have  seen  me  standing  scared 
below.  As  my  eyes  followed  her  white  hand,  again  the  same  dim  suggestion 
that  I could  not  possibly  grasp,  crossed  me.  My  involuntary  start  occasioned 
her  to  lay  her  hand  upon  my  arm.  Instantly  the  ghost  passed  once  more  and 
was  gone. 

What  was  it  ? 

“ What  is  the  matter  ?”  asked  Estella.  “ Are  you  scared  again  ?” 

“ I should  be  if  I believed  what  you  said  just  now,”  I replied,  to  turn  it  off. 

“Then  you  don’t?  Very  well.  It  is  said,  at  any  rate.  Miss  Havisham  will 
soon  be  expecting  you  at  your  old  post,  though  I think  that  might  be  laid  aside 
now,  with  other  old  belongings.  Let  us  make  one  more  round  of  the  garden,  and 
then  go  in.  Come ! You  shall  not  shed  tears  for  my  cruelty  to-day  ; you  shall  be 
my  Page,  and  give  me  your  shoulder.” 

Her  handsome  dress  had  trailed  upon  the  ground.  She  held  it  in  one  hand  now, 
and  with  the  other  lightly  touched  my  shoulder  as  we  walked.  We  walked  round 
the  ruined  garden  twice  or  thrice  more,  and  it  was  all  in  bloom  for  me.  If  the 
green  and  yellow  growth  of  weed  in  the  chinks  of  the  old  wall  had  been  the  most 
precious  flowers  that  ever  blew,  it  could  not  have  been  more  cherished  in  my 
remembrance. 

There  was  no  discrepancy  of  years  between  us,  to  remove  her  far  from  me  ; we 
were  of  nearly  the  same  age,  though  of  course  the  age  told  for  more  in  her  case 
than  in  mine  ; but  the  air  of  inaccessibility  which  her  beauty  and  her  manner  gave 
her,  tormented  me  in  the  midst  of  n.y  delight,  and  at  the  height  of  the  assurance 
I felt  that  our  patroness  had  chosen  us  for  one  another.  Wretched  boy ! 

At  last  w^e  went  back  into  the  house,  and  there  I heard,  with  surprise,  that  my 
guardian  had  come  down  to  see  Miss  Havisham  on  business,  and  would  come  back 
to  dinner.  The  old  wintry  branches  of  chandeliers  in  the  room  where  the  moulder- 
ing table  was  spread,  had  been  lighted  while  we  were  out,  and  Miss  Havisham  was 
in  her  chair  and  waiting  for  me. 

It  was  like  pushing  the  chair  itself  back  into  the  past,  when  we  began  the  old 
slow  circuit  round  about  the  ashes  of  the  bridal  feast.  But,  in  the  funereal  room, 
with  that  figure  of  the  grave  fallen  back  in  the  chair  fixing  its  eyes  upon  her, 
Estella  looked  more  bright  and  beautiful  than  before,  and  I was  under  stronger 
enchantment. 

The  time  so  melted  away,  that  our  early  dinner-hour  drew  close  at  hand,  and 
Estella  left  us  to  prepare  herself.  We  had  stopped  near  the  centre  of  the  long 
table,  and  Miss  Havisham,  with  one  of  her  withered  arms  stretched  out  of  the 
chair,  rested  that  clenched  hand  upon  the  yellow  cloth.  As  Estella  looked  back 
over  her  shoulder  before  going  out  at  the  door,  Miss  Havisham  kissed  that  hand 
to  her,  with  a ravenous  intensity  that  was  of  its  kind  quite  dreadful. 

Then,  Estella  being  gone  and  we  two  left  alone,  she  turned  to  me  and  said  in  a 
whisper : 

“Is  she  beautiful,  graceful,  well-grown  ? Do  you  admire  her  ?” 

“ Everybody  must  who  sees  her,  Miss  Havisham.” 

.She  drew  an  arm  round  my  neck,  and  drew  my  head  close  down  to  hers  as  she 
tat  in  the  chair.  “ Love  her,  love  her,  love  her  ! How  does  she  use  you  ?” 

Before  I could  answer  (if  I could  have  answered  so  difficult  a question  at  ail)t 


Arrival  of  Mr . Jaggen. 


3f,3 

*he  repeated,  u<  Love  her,  love  her,  love  her ! If  she  favours  you,  love  her.  If  she 
wounds  you,  love  her.  If  she  tears  your  heart  to  pieces — and  as  it  gets  older  and 
stronger  it  will  tear  deeper — love  her,  love  her,  love  her  ! ” 

Never  had  I seen  such  passionate  eagerness  as  was  joined  to  her  utterance  of 
these  words.  I could  feel  the  muscles  of  the  thin  arm  round  my  neck,  swell  with 
the  vehemence  that  possessed  her. 

“ Hear  me,  Pip  ! I adopted  her  to  be  loved.  I bred  her  and  educated  her,  to 
be  loved.  I developed  her  into  what  she  is,  that  she  might  be  loved.  Love  her ! ” 

She  said  the  word  often  enough,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  meant 
to  say  it ; but  if  the  often  repeated  word  had  been  hate  instead  of  love — 
despair — revenge — dire  death — it  could  not  have  sounded  from  her  lips  more 
like  a curse. 

“ I’ll  tell  you,”  said  she,  in  the  same  hurried  passionate  whisper,  “ what  real 
love  is.  It  is  blind  devotion,  unquestioning  self-humiliation,  utter  submission, 
trust  and  belief  against  yourself  and  against  the  whole  world,  giving  up  your 
whole  heart  and  soul  to  the  smiter — as  I did  ! ” 

When  she  came  to  that,  and  to  a wild  cry  that  followed  that,  I caught  hei 
lound  the  waist.  For  she  rose  up  in  the  chair,  in  her  shroud  of  a dress,  and 
struck  at  the  air  as  if  she  would  as  soon  have  struck  herself  against  the  wall  and 
fallen  dead. 

All  this  passed  in  a few  seconds.  As  I drew  her  down  into  her  chair,  I was 
conscious  of  a scent  that  I knew,  and  turning,  saw  my  guardian  in  the  room. 

He  always  carried  (I  have  not  yet  mentioned  it,  I think)  a pocket-handkerchief 
of  rich  silk  and  of  imposing  proportions,  which  was  of  great  value  to  him  in  his 
profession.  I have  seen  him  so  terrify  a client  or  a witness  by  ceremoniously  un- 
folding this  pocket-handkerchief  as  if  he  were  immediately  going  to  blow  his 
nose,  and  then  pausing,  as  if  he  knew  he  should  not  have  time  to  do  it,  before 
such  client  or  witness  committed  himself,  that  the  self-committal  has  followed 
directly,  quite  as  a matter  of  course.  When  I saw  him  in  the  room  he  had  this 
expressive  pocket-handkerchief  in  both  hands,  and  was  looking  at  us.  On  meeting 
my  eye,  he  said  plainly,  by  a momentary  and  silent  pause  in  that  attitude,  “In- 
deed ? Singular !”  and  then  put  the  handkerchief  to  its  right  use  with  wonderful 
effect. 

Miss  Havisham  had  seen  him  as  soon  as  I,  and  was  (like  everybody  else)  afraid 
of  him.  She  made  a strong  attempt  to  compose  herself,  and  stammered  that  he 
was  as  punctual  as  ever. 

“As  punctual  as  ever,”  he  repeated,  coming  up  to  us.  “(How  do  you  do, 
Pip  ? Shall  I give  you  a ride,  Miss  Havisham  ? Once  round  ?)  And  so  you  are 
here,  Pip  ?” 

I told  him  when  I had  arrived,  and  how  Miss  Havisham  wished  me  to  come  and 
see  Estella.  To  which  he  replied,  “Ah!  Very  fine  young  lady!”  Then  he 
pushed  Miss  Havisham  in  her  chair  before  him,  with  one  of  his  large  hands,  and 
put  the  other  in  his  trousers-pocket  as  if  the  pocket  were  full  of  secrets. 

“ Well,  Pip  ! How  often  have  you  seen  Miss  Estella  before  ?”  said  he,  when 
he  came  to  a stop. 

“ How  often  ?” 

“ Ah  ! How  many  times  ? Ten  thousand  times  ?” 

“ Oh  ! Certainly  not  so  many.” 

“ Twice  ?” 

“Jaggers>”  interposed  Miss  Havisham,  much  to  my  relief;  “leave  my  Pip 
llone,  and  go  with  him  to  your  dinner.” 

He  complied,  and  we  groped  our  way  down  the  dark  stairs  together.  While 
we  were  still  on  our  way  to  those  detached  apartments  across  the  paved  yard  at 


364 


Great  Expectations . 


[he  back,  he  asked  me  how  often  I had  seen  Miss  Havisham  eat  and  drink ; offer 
mg  me  a breadth  of  choice,  as  usual,  between  a hundred  times  and  once. 

I considered,  and  said,  “ Never.” 

“And  never  will,  Pip,”  he  retorted,  with  a frowning  smile.  “ She  has  nevei 
allowed  herself  to  be  seen  doing  either,  since  she  lived  this  present  life  of  hers, 
tihe  wanders  about  in  the  night,  and  then  lays  hands  on  such  food  as  she  takes.” 

“ Pray,  sir,”  said  I,  “may  I ask  you  a question  ?” 

“You  may,”  said  he,  “ and  I may  decline  to  answer  it.  Put  your  question.” 

“ Estella’s  name,  is  it  Havisham  or ?”  I had  nothing  to  add. 

“ Or  what  ?”  said  he. 

“ Is  it  Havisham  ?” 

“ It  is  Havisham.” 

This  brought  us  to  the  dinner-table,  where  she  and  Sarah  Pocket  awaited  us. 
Mr.  Jaggers  presided,  Estella  sat  opposite  to  him,  I faced  my  green  and  yellow 
friend.  We  dined  very  well,  and  were  waited  on  by  a maid-servant  whom  I had 
never  seen  in  all  my  comings  and  goings,  but  who,  for  anything  I know,  had  been 
in  that  mysterious  house  the  whole  time.  After  dinner  a bottle  of  choice  old  port 
was  placed  before  my  guardian  (he  was  evidently  well  acquainted  with  the  vint- 
age), and  the  two  ladies  left  us. 

Anything  to  equal  the  determined  reticence  of  Mr.  Jaggers  under  that  roof  I never 
saw  elsewhere,  even  in  him.  He  kept  his  very  looks  to  himself,  and  scarcely 
directed  his  eyes  to  Estella’s  face  once  during  dinner.  When  she  spoke  to  him, 
he  listened,  and  in  due  course,  answered,  but  never  looked  at  her  that  I could  see. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  often  looked  at  him,  with  interest  and  curiosity,  if  not  dis- 
trust, but  his  face  never  showed  the  least  consciousness.  Throughout  dinner  he 
took  a dry  delight  in  making  Sarah  Pocket  greener  and  yellower,  by  often  refer- 
ring in  conversation  with  me  to  my  expectations  : but  here,  again,  he  showed  no 
consciousness,  and  even  made  it  appear  that  he  extorted — and  even  did  extort, 
though  I don’t  know  how — those  references  out  of  my  innocent  self. 

And  when  he  and  I were  left  alone  together,  he  sat  with  an  air  upon  him  of 
general  lying  by  in  consequence  of  information  he  possessed,  that  really  was  too 
much  for  me.  He  cross-examined  his  very  wine  when  he  had  nothing  else  in 
hand.  He  held  it  between  himself  and  the  candle,  tasted  the  port,  rolled  it  in  his 
mouth,  swallowed  it,  looked  at  his  glass  again,  smelt  the  port,  tried  it,  drank  it, 
filled  again,  and  cross-examined  the  glass  again,  until  I was  as  nervous  as  if  I had 
known  the  wine  to  be  telling  him  something  to  my  disadvantage.  Three  or  four 
times  I feebly  thought  I would  start  conversation ; but  whenever  he  saw  me  going 
to  ask  him  anything,  he  looked  at  me  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  and  rolling  his 
wine  about  in  his  mouth,  as  if  requesting  me  to  take  notice  that  it  was  of  no  use, 
for  he  couldn’t  answer. 

I think  Miss  Pocket  was  conscious  that  the  sight  of  me  involved  her  in  the 
danger  of  being  goaded  to  madness,  and  perhaps  tearing  off  her  cap — which  was 
a very  hideous  one,  in  the  nature  of  a muslin  mop — and  strewing  the  ground  with 
her  hair — which  assuredly  had  never  grown  on  her  head.  She  did  not  appear 
when  we  afterwards  went  up  to  Miss  Havisham’s  room,  and  we  four  played  at 
whist.  In  the  interval,  Miss  Havisham,  in  a fantastic  way,  had  put  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  jewels  from  her  dressing-table  into  Estella’s  hair,  and  about  her 
bosom  and  arms ; and  I saw  even  my  guardian  look  at  her  from  under  his  thick 
eyebrows,  and  raise  them  a little  when  her  loveliness  was  before  him,  with  those 
rich  flushes  of  glitter  and  colour  in  it. 

Of  the  manner  and  extent  to  which  he  took  our  trumps  into  custody,  and  came 
out  with  mean  little  cards  at  the  ends  of  hands,  before  which  the  glory  of  our 
Kings  and  Queers  was  utterly  abased,  I sa-’  nothing ; nor,  of  the  feeling  that  1 


In  she  old  town  again . 365 

had,  respecting  his  looking  upon  us  personally  in  the  light  of  three  very  obvious 
and  poor  riddles  that  he  had  found  out  long  ago.  What  I suffered  from,  was  the 
incompatibility  between  his  cold  presence  and  my  feelings  towards  Estella.  It 
was  not  that  I knew  I could  never  bear  to  speak  to  him  about  her,  that  I knew  I 
could  never  bear  to  hear  him  creak  his  boots  at  her,  that  I knew  I could  never 
bear  to  see  him  wash  his  hands  of  her ; it  was,  that  my  admiration  should  be 
within  a foot  or  two  of  him — it  was,  that  my  feelings  should  be  in  the  same  place 
with  him — that , was  the  agonising  circumstance. 

We  played  until  nine  o’clock,  and  then  it  was  arranged  that  when  Estella  came 
to  London  I should  be  forewarned  of  her  coming  and  should  meet  her  at  the 
coach ; and  then  I took  leave  of  her,  and  touched  her  and  left  her. 

My  guardian  lay  at  the  Boar  in  the  next  room  to  mine.  Far  into  the  night,  Miss 
Havisham's  words,  “ Love  her,  love  her,  love  her  !”  sounded  in  my  ears.  I adapted 
them  for  my  own  repetition,  and  said  to  my  pillow,  “ I love  her,  I love  her,  I love 
her !”  hundreds  ot  times.  Then,  a burst  of  gratitude  came  upon  me,  that  she 
should  be  destined  for  me,  once  the  blacksmith’s  boy.  Then,  I thought  if  she 
were,  as  I feared,  by  no  means  rapturously  grateful  for  that,  destiny  yet,  when 
would  she  begin  to  be  interested  in  me  ? When  should  I awaken  the  heart  within 
her,  that  was  mute  and  sleeping  now  ? 

Ah  me  ! I thought  those  were  high  and  great  emotions.  But  I never  thought 
there  was  anything  low  and  small  in  my  keeping  away  from  Joe,  because  I knew 
she  would  be  contemptuous  of  him.  It  was  but  a day  gone,  and  Joe  had  brought 
the  tears  into  my  yes  ; they  had  soon  dried,  God  forgive  me  1 soon  dried. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

After  well  co/sic  ering  the  matter  while  I was  dressing  at  the  Blue  Boar  in  the 
morning,  I resolved  to  tell  my  guardian  that  I doubted  Orlick’s  being  the  right 
sort  of  man  to  fill  a post  of  trust  at  Miss  Havisham’s.  “ Why,  of  course  he  is 
not  the  right  sovt  of  man,  Pip,”  said  my  guardian,  comfortably  satisfied  before- 
hand on  the  general  head,  “ because  the  man  who  fills  the  post  of  trust  never  is 
the  right  sort  of  man.”  It  seemed  quite  to  put  him  in  spirits,  to  find  that  this 
particular  post  was  not  exceptionally  held  by  the  right  sort  of  man,  and  he  listened 
in  a satisfied  manner  while  I told  him  what  knowledge  I had  of  Orlick.  “ Very 
good,  Pip,”  he  observed,  when  I had  concluded,  “I’ll  go  round  presently,  and 
pay  our  friend  cff.”  Rather  alarmed  by  this  summary  action,  I was  for  a little 
delay,  and  even  hinted  that  our  friend  himself  might  be  difficult  to  deal  with. 
“ Oh  no,  he  won’t”  said  my  guardian,  making  his  pocket-handkerchief-poinf  with 
perfect  confidence ; “ I should  like  to  see  him  argue  the  question  with  me. ’ ‘ 

As  we  wet  f going  back  together  to  London  by  the  mid-day  coach,  an  l as  I 
breakfasted  under  such  terrors  of  Pumblechook  that  I could  scarcely  hold  my  cup, 
this  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  saying  that  I wanted  a walk,  and  that  I would  go 
on  along  the  London-road  while  Mr.  Jaggers  was  occupied,  if  he  would  let  the 
coachmar.  J .vow  that  I would  get  into  my  place  when  overtaken.  I was  thus  enabled 
to  fly  fro r.  the  Blue  Boar  immediately  after  breakfast.  By  then  making  a loop  of 
about  a rjuple  of  miles  into  the  open  country  at  the  back  of  Pumblechook’s 
premises  I got  rcvnd  into  the  High-street  again,  a little  beyond  that  pitfall,  and 
felt  my  yd:  in  comparative  security. 

F v 7 i interesting  to  be  in  the  quiet  old  town  once  more,  and  it  was  not  disagree* 
life  / be  here  and  there  suddenly  recognised  and  stared  after.  Omt  or  two  nt 


306 


Great  Expectations . 


the  tradespeople  even  darted  out  of  their  shops,  and  went  a little  way  down  the 
street  before  me,  that  they  might  turn,  as  it  they  had  forgotten  something,  anJ 
pass  me  face  to  face — on  which  occasions  I don’t  know  whether  they  or  I made 
the  worse  pretence  ; they  of  not  doing  it,  or  I of  not  seeing  it.  Still  my  position 
was  a distinguished  one,  and  I was  not  at  all  dissatisfied  with  it,  until  Fate  threw 
me  in  the  way  of  that  unlimited  miscreant,  Trabb’s  boy. 

Casting  my  eyes  along  the  street  at  a certain  point  of  my  progress,  1 beheld 
Trabb’s  boy  approaching,  lashing  himself  with  an  empty  blue  bag.  Deeming  that 
a serene  and  unconscious  contemplation  of  him  would  best  beseem  me,  and  would 
be  most  likely  to  quell  his  evil  mind,  I advanced  with  that  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  was  rather  congratulating  myself  on  my  success,  when  suddenly  the 
knees  of  Trabb’s  boy  smote  together,  his  hair  uprose,  his  cap  fell  olf,  he  trembled 
violently  in  every  limb,  staggered  out  into  the  road,  and  crying  to  the  populace, 
“ Hold  me  ! I’m  so  frightened  !”  feigned  to  be  in  a paroxysm  of  terror  and  con- 
trition, occasioned  by  the  dignity  of  my  appearance.  As  I passed  him,  his  teeth 
loudly  chattered  in  his  head,  and  with  every  mark  of  extreme  humiliation,  he  pros- 
trated himself  in  the  dust. 

This  was  a hard  thing  to  bear,  but  this  was  nothing.  I had  not  advanced 
another  two  hundred  yards,  when,  to  my  inexpressible  terror,  amazement,  and 
indignation,  I again  beheld  Trabb’s  boy  approaching.  He  was  coming  round  a 
narrow  corner.  His  blue  bag  was  slung  over  his  shoulder,  honest  industry  beamed 
in  his  eyes,  a determination  to  proceed  to  Trabb’s  with  cheerful  briskness  was 
indicated  in  his  gait.  With  a shock  he  became  aware  of  me,  and  was  severely 
visited  as  before  ; but  this  time  his  motion  was  rotatory,  and  he  staggered  round 
and  round  me  with  knees  more  afflicted,  and  with  uplifted  hands  as  if  beseeching 
for  mercy.  His  sufferings  were  hailed  with  the  greatest  joy  by  a knot  of  specta- 
tors, and  I felt  utterly  confounded. 

I had  not  got  as  much  further  down  the  street  as  the  post-office,  when  I again 
beheld  Trabb’s  boy  shooting  round  by  a back  way.  This  time,  he  was  entirely 
changed.  He  wore  the  blue  bag  in  the  manner  of  my  great-coat,  and  was  strutting 
along  the  pavement  towards  me  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  attended  by  a 
company  of  delighted  young  friends  to  whom  he  from  time  to  time  exclaimed, 
with  a wave  of  his  hand,  “ Don’t  know  yah  !”  Words  cannot  state  the  amount 
of  aggravation  and  injury  wreaked  upon  me  by  Trabb’s  boy,  when,  passing  abreast 
of  me,  he  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar,  twined  his  side-hair,  stuck  an  arm  akimbo, 
and  smirked  extravagantly  by,  wriggling  his  elbows  and  body,  and  drawling  to  his 
attendants,  ‘ Don’t  know  yah,  don’t  know  yah,  pon  my  soul  don’t  know  yah!” 
The  disgrace  attendant  on  his  immediately  afterwards  taking  to  crowing  and  pur- 
suing me  across  the  bridge  with  crows,  as  from  an  exceedingly  dejected  fowl  who 
had  known  me  when  I was  a blacksmith,  culminated  the  disgrace  with  which  I 
left  the  town,  and  was,  so  to  speak,  ejected  by  it  into  the  open  country. 

But  unless  I had  taken  the  life  of  Trabb’s  boy  on  that  occasion,  I really  do  not 
even  now  see  what  I could  have  done  save  endure.  To  have  struggled  with  him 
in  the  street,  or  to  have  exacted  any  lower  recompense  from  him  than  his  heart’s 
best  blood,  would  have  been  futile  and  degrading.  Moreover,  he  was  a boy  whom 
no  man  could  hurt ; an  invulnerable  and  dodging  serpent  who,  when  chased  into 
a corner,  flew  out  again  between  his  captor’s  legs,  scornfully  yelping.  I wrote, 
however,  to  Mr.  Trabb  by  next  day’s  post,  to  say  that  Mr.  Pip  must  decline 
to  deal  further  with  one  who  could  so  far  forget  what  he  owed  to  the  best  in- 
terests of  society,  as  to  employ  a boy  who  excited  Loathing  in  every  respectable 
mind. 

The  coaffi,  with  Mr.  Jaggers  inside,  came  up  in  due  time,  and  I took  my  box- 
again,  and  arrived  in  Londor  safe— but  not  sound,  for  my  heart  was  gone.  As 


Herbert  knows  that  I love  E Stella  f 367 

#oon  as  I arrived,  I sent  a penitential  codfish  and  barrel  of  oysters  to  Joe  (as  repara* 
tion  for  not  having  gone  myself),  and  then  went  on  to  Barnard’s  Inn. 

I found  Herbert  dining  on  cold  meat,  and  delighted  to  welcome  me  back. 
Having  despatched  the  Avenger  to  the  coffee-house  for  an  addition  to  the  dimer, 
I felt  that  I must  open  my  breast  that  very  evening  to  my  friend  and  chum.  As 
confidence  was  out  of  the  question  with  the  Avenger  in  the  hall,  which  could 
merely  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  an  ante-chamber  to  the  keyhole,  I sent  him  to 
the  Play.  A better  proof  of  the  severity  of  my  bondage  to  that  taskmaster  could 
scarceiy  be  afforded,  than  the  degrading  shifts  to  which  I was  constantly  driven  to 
find  him  employment.  So  mean  is  extremity,  that  I sometimes  sent  him  to  Hyde 
Park  Corner  to  see  what  o’clock  it  was. 

Dinner  done  and  we  sitting  with  our  feet  upon  the  fender,  I said  to  Herbert, 
“ My  dear  Herbert,  I have  something  very  particular  to  tell  you.” 

“ My  dear  Handel,”  he  returned,  “I  shall  esteem  and  respect  your  confidence.” 
“ It  concerns  myself,  Herbert,”  said  I,  “ and  one  other  person.” 

Herbert  crossed  his  feet,  looked  at  the  fire  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
having  looked  at  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  looked  at  me  because  I didn’t  go  on. 

“ Herbert,”  said  I,  laying  my  hand  upon  his  knee,  “ I love — I adore — Estella.” 
Instead  of  being  transfixed,  Herbert  replied  in  an  easy  matter-of-course  way, 
Exactly.  -Well?” 

“ Well,  Herbert.  Is  that  all  you  say  ? Well  ?” 

“ What  next,  I mean  ?”  said  Herbert.  “ Of  course  I know  that." 

“ How  do  you  know  it  ? ” said  I. 

“ How  do  1 know  it,  Handel  ? Why,  from  you.” 

“ I never  told  you.” 

“ Told  me  ! You  have  never  told  me  when  you  have  got  your  hair  cut,  but  I 
have  had  senses  to  perceive  it.  You  have  always  adored  her,  ever  since  I have 
known  you.  You  brought  your  adoration  and  your  portmanteau  here,  together. 
Told  me ! Why,  you  have  always  told  me  all  day  long.  When  you  told  me 
youi  own  story,  you  told  me  plainly  that  you  began  adoring  her  the  first  time  you 
saw  her,  when  you  were  very  young  indeed.” 

“Very  well,  then,”  said  I,  to  whom  this  was  a new  and  not  unwelcome  light, 
“ I have  never  left  off  adoring  her.  And  she  has  come  back,  a most  beautiful  and 
most  elegant  creature.  And  I saw  her  yesterday.  And  if  I adored  her  before,  1 
now  doubly  adore  her.” 

“Lucky  for  you  then,  Handel,”  said  Herbert,  “ that  you  are  picked  out  for  her 
and  allotted  to  her.  Without  encroaching  on  forbidden  ground,  we  may  venture 
to  say,  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  between  ourselves  of  that  fact.  Have  you  any 
idea  yet,  of  Estella’s  views  on  the  adoration  question  ? ” 

I shook  my  head  gloomily.  “ Oh  ! She  is  thousands  of  miles  away,  from  me,” 
said  I. 

“ Patience,  my  dear  Handel : time  enough,  time  enough.  But  you  have  some- 
thing more  to  say  ? ” 

“ I am  ashamed  to  say  it,”  I returned,  “ and  yet  it’s  no  worse  to  say  it  than  to 
think  it.  You  call  me  a lucky  fellow.  Of  course,  I am.  I was  a blacksmith’s 
boy  but  yesterday  ; I am — what  shall  I say  I am — to-day  ? ” 

“ Say,  a good  fellow,  if  you  want  a phrase,”  returned  Herbert,  smiling,  and 
clapping  his  hand  on  the  back  of  mine:  “a  good  fellow,  with  impetuosity  and 
hesitation,  boldness  and  diffidence,  action  and  dreaming,  curiously  mixed  in  him.” 
I stopped  for  a moment  to  consider  whether  there  really  was  this  mixture  in  my 
character.  On  the  whole,  I by  no  means  recognised  the  analysis,  but  thought  it 
cot  worth  disputing. 

“ When  I ask  what  I am  to  call  myself  to-day,  Herbert,”  I went  on,  “ I suggest 


Great  Expectations. 


368 


what  I have  in  my  thoughts.  You  say  I am  lucky.  I know  I have  done  nothing 
to  raise  myself  in  life,  and  that  Fortune  alone  has  raised  me  ; that  is  being  very 
lucky.  And  yet,  when  I think  of  Estella ” 

(“And  when  don’t  you,  you  know!  ” Herbert  threw  in,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
fire ; which  I thought  kind  and  sympathetic  of  him.) 

“ — Then,  my  dear  Herbert,  I cannot  tell  you  how  dependent  and  uncertain  I 
feel,  and  how  exposed  to  hundreds  of  chances.  Avoiding  forbidden  ground,  as 
you  did  just  now,  I may  still  say  that  on  the  constancy  of  one  person  (naming  no 
person)  all  my  expectations  depend.  And  at  the  best,  how  indefinite  and  unsatis- 
factory, only  to  know  so  vaguely  what  they  are  ! ” In  saying  this,  I relieved  my 
mind  of  what  had  always  been  there,  more  or  less,  though  no  doubt  most  since 
yesterday. 

“ Now,  Handel,”  Herbert  replied,  in  his  gay  hopeful  way,  “ it  seems  tome  that 
in  the  despondency  of  the  tender  passion,  we  are  looking  into  our  gift-horse’s 
mouth  with  a magnifying-glass.  Likewise,  it  seems  to  me  that,  concentrating  our 
attention  on  the  examination,  we  altogether  overlook  one  of  the  best  points  of  the 
animal.  Didn’t  you  tell  me  that  your  guardian,  Mr.  Jaggers,  told  you  in  the 
beginning,  that  you  were  not  endowed  with  expectations  only  ? And  even  if  he 
had  not  told  you  so — though  that  is  a very  large  If,  I grant — could  you  believe 
that  of  all  men  in  London,  Mr.  Jaggers  is  the  man  to  hold  his  present  relations 
towards  you  unless  he  were  sure  of  his  ground  ? ” 

I said  I could  not  deny  that  this  was  a strong  point.  I said  it  (people  often  do 
so  in  such  cases)  like  a rather  reluctant  concession  to  truth  and  justice  ; — as  if  I 
wanted  to  deny  it ! 

“I  should  think  it  was  a strong  point,”  said  Herbert,”  and  I should  think  you 
would  be  puzzled  to  imagine  a stronger ; as  to  the  rest,  you  must  bide  your  guar- 
dian’s  time,  and  he  must  bide  his  client’s  time.  You’ll  be  one-and-twenty  before 
you  know  where  you  are,  and  then  perhaps  you’ll  get  some  further  enlightenment. 
At  all  events,  you’ll  be  nearer  getting  it,  for  it  must  come  at  last.” 

“ What  a hopeful  disposition  you  have  ! ” said  I,  gratefully  admiring  his  cheery 
ways. 

“ I ought  to  have,”  said  Herbert,  “ for  I have  not  much  else.  I must  acknow- 
ledge, by-the-bye,  that  the  good  sense  of  what  I have  just  said  is  not  my  own,  but 
my  father’s.  The  only  remark  I ever  heard  him  make  on  your  story,  was  the  final 
one  : ‘ The  thing  is  settled  and  done,  or  Mr.  Jaggers  would  not  be  in  it.’  And 
now,  before  I say  anything  more  about  my  father,  or  my  father’s  son,  and  repay 
confidence  with  confidence,  I want  to  make  myself  seriously  disagreeable  to  you 
for  a moment — positively  repulsive.” 

“You  won’t  succeed,”  said  I. 

“ Oh  yes  I shall ! ” said  he.  “ One,  two,  three,  and  now  I am  in  for  it.  Handel, 
my  good  fellow:  ” though  he  spoke  in  this  light  tone,  he  was  very  much  in  earnest: 
“ I have  been  thinking  since  we  have  been  talking  v/ith  our  feet  on  this  fender,  that 
Estella  cannot  surely  be  a condition  of  your  inheritance,  if  she  was  never  referred 
to  by  your  guardian.  Am  I right  in  so  understanding  what  you  have  told  me,  as 
that  he  never  referred  to  her,  directly  or  indirectly,  in  any  way  ? Never  even  hinted, 
for  instance,  that  your  patron  might  have  views  as  to  your  marriage  ultimately  ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Now,  Handel,  I am  quite  free  from  the  flavour  of  sour  grapes,  upon  my  soul 
and  honour  ! Not  being  bound  to  her,  can  you  not  detach  yourself  from  her  ? — I 
.old  you  I should  be  disagreeable.” 

I turned  my  head  aside,  for,  with  a rush  and  a sweep,  like  the  old  marsh  winds 
ioming  up  from  the  sea,  a feeling  like  that  which  had  subdued  me  on  the  morning 
when  I left  the  forge,  when  the  mists  were  solemnly  rising,  and  when  I laid  my 


Herbert' s Sweetheart . 369 

ftand  upon  the  village  finger-post,  smote  upon  my  heart  again.  There  was  silence 
between  us  for  a little  while. 

“ Yes  ; but  my  dear  Handel,”  Herbert  went  on,  as  if  we  had  been  talking  instead 
of  silent,  “ its  having  been  so  strongly  rooted  in  the  breast  of  a boy  whom  nature 
and  circumstances  made  so  romantic,  renders  it  very  serious.  Think  of  her  bringing- 
up,  and  think  of  Miss  Havisham.  Think  of  what  she  is  herself  (now  I am  * epulsive 
and  you  abominate  me).  This  may  lead  to  miserable  things.” 

“ I know  it,  Herbert,”  said  I,  with  my  head  still  turned  away,  “but  I can’t 
help  it.” 

“ You  can’t  detach  yourself? 99 
“No.  Impossible ! ” 

“ You  can’t  try,  Handel  ? ” 

“ No.  Impossible  ! ” 

“ Well ! ” said  Herbert,  getting  up  with  a lively  shake  as  if  he  had  been  asleep, 
and  Stirling  the  fire  ; “ now  I’ll  endeavour  to  make  myself  agreeable  again  ! ” 

So,  he  went  round  the  room  and  shook  the  curtains  out,  put  the  chairs  in  their 
places,  tidied  the  books  and  so  forth  that  were  lying  about,  looked  into  the  hall, 
peeped  into  the  letter-box,  shut  the  door,  and  came  back  to  his  chair  by  the  fire  ; 
when  he  sat  down,  nursing  his  left  leg  in  both  arms. 

“ I was  going  to  say  a word  or  two,  Handel,  concerning  my  father  and  my 
father’s  son.  I am  afraid  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for  my  father’s  son  to  remark 
that  my  father’s  establishment  is  not  particularly  brilliant  in  its  housekeeping.” 

“ There  is  always  plenty,  Herbert,”  said  I,  to  say  something  encouraging. 

“ Oh  yes  ! and  so  the  dustman  says,  I believe,  with  the  strongest  approval,  and 
so  does  the  marine-store  shop  in  the  back  street.  Gravely,  Handel,  for  the  subject 
is  grave  enough,  you  know  how  it  is,  as  well  as  I do.  I suppose  there  was  a time 
once,  when  my  father  had  not  given  matters  up  ; but  if  ever  there  was,  the  time  is 
gone.  May  I ask  you  if  you  have  ever  had  an  opportunity  of  remarking,  down  in 
your  part  of  the  country,  that  the  children  of  not  exactly  suitable  marriages,  ar# 
always  most  particularly  anxious  to  be  married  ?” 

This  was  such  a singular  question,  that  I asked  him,  in  return,  “ Is  it  so  ? ” 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  Herbert;  “that’s  what  I want  to  know.  Because  it  is 
decidedly  the  case  with  us.  My  poor  sister  Charlotte  who  was  next  me  and  died 
before  she  was  fourteen,  was  a striking  example.  Little  Jane  is  the  same.  In  her 
desire  to  be  matrimonially  established,  you  might  suppose  her  to  have  passed  her 
short  existence  in  the  perpetual  contemplation  of  domestic  bliss.  Little  Alick  in 
a frock  has  already  made  arrangements  for  his  union  with  a suitable  young  person 
at  Kew.  And,  indeed,  I think  we  are  all  engaged,  except  the  baby.” 

“ Then  you  are  ?”  said  I. 

“ I am,”  said  Herbert ; “ but  it’s  a secret.” 

I assured  him  of  my  keeping  the  secret,  and  begged  t©  be  favoured  with  further 
particulars.  He  had  spoken  so  sensibly  and  feelingly  of  my  weakness,  that  I 
wanted  to  know  something  about  his  strength. 

“ May  I ask  the  name  ? ” I said. 

“ Name  of  Clara,”  said  Herbert. 

“ Live  in  London  ? ” 

“Yes.  Perhaps  I ought  to  mention,”  said  Herbert,  who  had  become  curiously 
crestfallen  and  meek,  since  we  entered  on  the  interesting  theme,  “ that  she  is  rather 
below  my  mother’s  nonsensical  family  notions.  Her  father  had  to  do  *vitb  Liu 
victualling  of  passenger-ships.  I think  he  was  a species  of  purser.” 

“ What  is  he  now  ? ” said  I. 

“ He’s  an  invalid  now.  ’ replied  Herberc. 

*•  Living  on ? ” 


B B 


37° 


Great  Expectations . 


“ On  the  first  floor,”  said  Herbert.  Which  was  not  at  all  what  I meant,  for  I had 
intended  my  question  to  apply  to  his  means.  “ I have  never  seen  him,  for  he  has 
always  kept  Ins  room  overhead,  since  I have  known  Clara.  But  I have  heard  him 
constantly.  He  makes  tremendous  rows — roars,  and  pegs  at  the  floor  with  some 
frightful  instrument.”  In  looking  at  me  and  then  laughing  heartily,  Herbert  for 
the  time  recovered  his  usual  lively  manner. 

“ Don’t  you  expect  to  see  him  ? ” said  I. 

“ Oh  yes,  I constantly  expect  to  see  him,”  returned  Herbert,  “ because  I never 
hear  him,  without  expecting  him  to  come  tumbling  through  the  ceiling.  But  1 
don’t  know  how  long  the  rafters  may  hold.” 

When  he  had  once  more  laughed  heartily,  he  became  meek  again,  and  told  me 
that  the  moment  he  began  to  realise  Capital,  it  was  his  intention  to  marry  this 
young  lady.  He  added  as  a self-evident  proposition,  engendering  low  spirits, 
“ But  you  can’t  many,  you  know,  while  you’re  looking  about  you.” 

As  we  contemplated  the  fire,  and  as  I thought  what  a difficult  vision  to  realise 
this  same  Capital  sometimes  was,  I put  my  hands  in  my  pockets.  A folded  piece 
of  paper  in  one  of  them  attracting  my  attention,  I opened  it  and  found  it  to  be  the 
playbill  I had  received  from  Joe,  relative  to  the  celebrated  provincial  amateur  of 
Roscian  renown.  “And  bless  my  heart,”  I involuntarily  added  aloud,  “it’s  to-night!” 
This  changed  the  subject  in  an  instant,  and  made  us  hurriedly  resolve  to  go  to 
the  play.  So,  when  I had  pledged  myself  to  comfort  and  abet  Herbert  in  the 
affair  of  his  heart  by  all  practicable  and  impracticable  means,  and  when  Herbert 
had  told  me  that  his  affianced  already  knew  me  by  reputation,  and  that  I should 
be  presented  to  her,  and  when  we  had  warmly  shaken  hands  upon  our  mutual 
confidence,  wre  blew  out  our  candles,  made  up  our  fire,  locked  our  door,  and  issued 
forth  in  quest  of  Mr.  Wopsle  and  Denmark. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

On  our  arrival  in  Denmark,  we  found  the  king  and  queen  of  that  countiy  elevated 
in  two  arm-chairs  on  a kitchen*  table,  holding  a Court.  The  whole  of  the 
Danish  nobility  were  in  attendance  ; consisting  of  a noble  boy  in  the  wash-leather 
boots  of  a gigantic  ancestor,  a venerable  Peer  with  a dirty  face,  who  seemed  to 
have  risen  from  the  people  late  in  life,  and  the  Danish  chivalry  with  a comb  in  its 
hair  and  a pair  of  white  silk  legs,  and  presenting  on  the  whole  a feminine  appear- 
ance. My  gifted  townsman  stood  gloomily  apart,  with  folded  arms,  and  I could 
have  wished  that  his  curls  and  forehead  had  been  more  probable. 

Several  curious  little  circumstances  transpired  as  the  action  proceeded.  The 
late  king  of  the  country  not  only  appeared  to  have  been  troubled  with  a cough  at 
the  time  of  his  decease,  but  to  have  taken  it  with  him  to  the  tomb,  and  to  have 
brought  it  back.  The  royal  phantom  also  carried  a ghostly  manuscript  round  its 
truncheon,  to  which  it  had  the  appearance  of  occasionally  referring,  and  that,  too, 
with  an  air  of  anxiety  and  a tendency  to  lose  the  place  of  reference  which  were 
suggestive  of  a state  of  mortality.  It  was  this,  I conceive,  which  led  to  the  Shade’s 
being  advised  by  the  gallery  to  “ turn  over  ! ” — a recommendation  which  it  took 
extremely  ill.  It  was  likewise  to  be  noted  of  this  majestic  spirit  that  whereas  it 
always  appeared  with  an  air  of  having  been  out  a long  time  and  walked  an  immense 
distance,  it  perceptibly  came  from  a closely-contiguous  wall.  This  occasioned  its 
terrors  to  be  received  derisively.  The  Queen  of  Denmark,  a very  buxom  lady, 
though  nc  doubt  historically  brazen,  was  considered  by  the  public  to  have  too 


Mr,  Wopsle  jj  Hamtet . 


37 1 


much  brass  about  her ; her  chin  being  attached  to  her  diadem  by  a broad  band  of 
that  metal  (as  if  she  had  a gorgeous  toothache),  her  waist  being  encircled  by  ano- 
ther, and  each  of  her  arms  by  another,  so  that  she  was  openly  mentioned  as  “ the 
kettledrum.”  The  noble  boy  in  the  ancestral  boots,  was  inconsistent;  representing 
himself,  as  it  were  in  one  breath,  as  an  able  seaman,  a strolling  actor,  a grave- 
digger, a clergyman,  and  a person  of  the  utmost  importance  at  a Court  fencing- 
match,  on  the  authority  of  whose  practised  eye  and  nice  discrimination  the  finest 
strokes  were  judged.  This  gradually  led  to  a want  of  toleration  for  him,  and  even 
— on  his  being  detected  in  holy  orders,  and  declining  to  perform  the  funeral  ser- 
vice— to  the  general  indignation  taking  the  form  of  nuts.  Lastly,  Ophelia  was  a 
prey  to  such  slow  musical  madness,  that  when,  in  course  of  time,  she  had  taken  off 
her  white  muslin  scarf,  folded  it  up,  and  buried  it,  a sulky  man  who  had  been  long 
cooling  his  impatient  nose  against  an  iron  bar  in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery, 
growled,  “Now  the  baby ’s  put  to  bed,  let’s  have  supper!  ” Which,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  was  out  of  keeping. 

Upon  my  unfortunate  townsman  all  these  incidents  accumulated  with  playful 
effect.  Whenever  that  undecided  Prince  had  to  ask  a question  or  state  a doubt, 
the  public  helped  him  out  with  it.  As  for  example  ; on  the  question  whether 
’twas  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer,  some  roared  yes,  and  some  no,  and  some 
inclining  to  both  opinions  said  “toss  up  for  it  and  quite  a Debating  Society 
arose.  When  he  asked  what  should  such  fellows  as  he  do  crawling  between  earth 
and  heaven,  he  was  encouraged  with  loud  cries  of  “ Hear,  hear  ! ” When  he 
appeared  with  his  stocking  disordered  (its  disorder  expressed,  according  to  usage, 
by  one  very  neat  fold  in  the  top,  which  I suppose  to  be  always  got  up  with  a flat 
iron),  a conversation  took  place  in  the  gallery  respecting  the  paleness  of  his  leg, 
and  whether  it  was  occasioned  by  the  turn  the  ghost  had  given  him.  On  his  taking 
the  recorders — very  like  a little  black  flute  that  had  just  been  played  in  the  orchestra 
and  handed  out  at  the  door — he  was  called  upon  unanimously  for  Rule  Britannia. 
When  he  recommended  the  player  not  to  saw  the  air  thus,  the  sulky  man  said, 
“ And  don’t  you  do  it,  neither ; you’je  a deal  worse  than  him  ! ” And  I grieve  to 
add  that  peals  of  laughter  greeted  Mr.  Wopsle  on  every  one  of  these  occasions. 

But  his  greatest  trials  were  in  the  churchyard  : which  had  the  appearance  of  a 
primeval  forest,  with  a kind  of  small  ecclesiastical  wash-house  on  one  side,  and  a 
turnpike  gate  on  the  other.  Mr.  Wopsle,  in  a comprehensive  black  cloak,  being 
descried  entering  at  the  turnpike,  the  gravedigger  was  admonished  in  a friendly 
way,  “ Look  out ! Here’s  the  undertaker  a coming,  to  see  how  you’re  getting  on 
with  your  work  ! ” I believe  it  is  well  known  in  a constitutional  country  that  Mr. 
Wopsle  could  not  possibly  have  returned  the  skull,  after  moralising  over  it,  with- 
out dusting  his  fingers  on  a white  napkin  taken  from  his  breast ; but  even  that 
innocent  and  indispensable  action  did  not  pass  without  the  comment  “ Wai-ter ! ” 
The  arrival  of  the  body  for  interment  (in  an  empty  black  box  with  the  lid  tumbling 
open),  was  the  signal  fora  general  joy  which  was  much  enhanced  by  the  discovery, 
among  the  bearers,  of  an  individual  obnoxious  to  identification.  The  joy  attended 
Mr.  Wopsle  through  his  struggle  with  Laertes  on  the  brink  of  the  orchestia  and 
the  grave,  and  slackened  no  more  until  he  had  tumbled  the  king  off  the  kitchen- 
table,  and  had  died  by  inches  from  the  ankles  upward. 

We  had  made  some  pale  efforts  in  the  beginning  to  applaud  Mr.  Wopsle  ; but 
they  were  too  hopeless  to  be  persisted  in.  Therefore  we  had  sat,  feeling  keenly 
for  him,  but  laughing,  nevertheless,  from  ear  to  ear.  I laughed  in  spite  of  myself 
all  the  time,  the  whole  thing  was  so  droll ; and  yet  I had  a latent  impression  that 
there  was  something  decidedly  fine  in  Mr.  Wopsle’s  elocution — not  for  old  asso- 
ciations’ sake,  I am  afraid,  but  because  it  was  very  slow,  very  dreary,  very  up-hill 
and  down-hill,  and  very  unlike  any  way  in  which  any  man  in  any  natural  circura 


3T2 


Great  Expectations . 


stances  of  life  or  death  ever  expressed  himself  about  anything.  When  the  tragedy 
was  over,  and  he  had  been  called  for  and  hooted,  I said  to  Herbert,  “ Let  us  go 
at  once,  or  perhaps  we  shall  meet  him.” 

We  made  all  the  haste  we  could  down-stairs,  but  we  were  not  quick  enough 
either.  Standing  at  the  door  was  a Jewish  man  with  an  unnatural  heavy  smeai 
of  eyebrow,  who  caught  my  eyes  as  we  advanced,  and  said,  when  we  came  up 
with  him  : 

“ Mr.  Pip  and  friend  ? ” 

Identity  of  Mr.  Pip  and  friend  confessed. 

“ Mr.  Walden garver,”  said  the  man,  “ would  be  glad  to  have  the  honour.” 

“ Waldengarver  ? ” I repeated — when  Herbert  murmured  in  my  ear,  “ Probably 
Wopsle.” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  I.  “ Yes.  Shall  we  follow  you  ? ” 

“A  few  steps,  please.”  When  we  were  in  a side  alley,  he  turned  and  asked, 
“ How  do  you  think  he  looked  ? — /dressed  him.” 

I don’t  know  what  he  had  looked  like,  except  a funeral ; with  the  addition  of  a 
large  Danish  sun  or  star  hanging  round  his  neck  by  a blue  ribbon,  that  had  given 
him  the  appeal ance  of  being  insured  in  some  extraordinary  Fire  Office.  But  I 
said  he  had  looked  very  nice. 

“When  he  come  to  the  grave,”  said  our  conductor,  “he  showed  his  cloak 
beautiful.  But,  judging  from  the  wing,  it  looked  to  me  that  when  he  see  the 
ghost  in  the  queen’s  apartment,  he  might  have  made  more  of  his  stockings.” 

I modestly  assented,  and  we  all  fell  through  a little  dirty  swing  door,  into  a sort 
of  hot  packing-case  immediately  behind  it.  Here  Mr.  Wopsle  was  divesting  him. 
self  of  his  Danish  garments,  and  here  there  was  just  room  for  us  to  look  at  him 
over  one  another’s  shoulders,  by  keeping  the  packing-case  door,  or  lid,  wide  open. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  “ I am  proud  to  see  you.  I hope,  Mr.  Pip, 
you  will  excuse  my  sending  round.  I had  the  happiness  to  know  you  in  former 
times,  and  the  Drama  has  ever  had  a claim  which  has  ever  been  acknowledged,  on 
the  noble  and  the  affluent.” 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Waldengarver,  in  a frightful  perspiration,  was  trying  to  get 
himself  out  of  his  princely  sables. 

“ Skin  the  stockings  off,  Mr.  Waldengarver,”  said  the  owner  of  that  property, 
“ or  you’ll  bust  ’em.  Bust  ’em,  and  you’ll  bust  five-and-thirty  shillings.  Shale- 
speare  never  was  complimented  with  a finer  pair.  Keep  quiet  in  your  chair  now, 
and  leave  ’em  to  me.” 

With  that,  he  went  upon  his  knees,  and  began  to  flay  his  victim  ; who,  on  the 
first  stocking  coming  off,  would  certainly  have  fallen  over  backward  with  his  chair, 
but  for  there  being  no  room  to  fall  anyhow. 

I had  been  afraid  until  then  to  say  a word  about  the  play.  But  then,  Mr. 
Waldengarver  looked  up  at  us  complacently,  and  said  : 

“ Gentlemen,  how  did  it  seem  to  you,  to  go,  in  front  ? ” 

Herbert  said  from  behind  (at  the  same  time  poking  me),  “capitally.”  So  I said 
“ capitally.” 

“ How  did  you  like  my  reading  of  the  character,  gentlemen  ? ” said  Mr.  Wal- 
dengarver, almost,  if  not  quite,  with  patronage. 

Herbert  said  from  behind  (again  poking  me),  “massive  and  concrete.”  So  1 
said  boldly,  as  if  I had  originated  it,  and  must  beg  to  insist  upon  it,  “ massive  and 
concrete.” 

“Iam  glad  to  have  your  approbation,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Waldengarver, 
with  an  air  cf  dignity,  in  spite  of  his  being  ground  against  the  wall  at  the  time, 
and  holding  on  by  the  seat  of  the  chair. 

“ But  I’ll  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Waldengarver,”  said  the  man  who  was  on  his 


A note  from  Estella . 


373 

Knees,  “ in  which  you’re  out  in  your  reading.  Now  mind  ! I don’t  care  who  says 
contrary ; I tell  you  so.  You’re  out  in  your  reading  of  Hamlet  when  you  get 
your  legs  in  profile.  The  last  Hamlet  as  I dressed,  made  the  same  mistakes  in 
his  reading  at  rehearsal,  till  I got  him  to  put  a large  red  wafer  on  each  of  nis 
shins,  and  theh  at  that  rehearsal  (which  was  the  last)  I went  in  front,  sir,  to  the 
bade  of  the  pit,  and  whenever  his  reading  brought  him  into  profile,  I called  out 
* I don’t  see  no  wafers  ! ’ And  at  night  his  reading  was  lovely.” 

Mr.  Waldengarver  smiled  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say  “ a faithful  dependent — I 
overlook  his  folly;  ” and  then  said  aloud,  “ My  view  is  a little  classic  and  thought- 
ful for  them  here  : but  they  will  improve,  they  will  improve.” 

Herbert  and  I said  together,  Oh,  no  doubt  they  would  improve. 

“ Did  you  observe,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Waldengarver,  “ that  there  was  a man 
in  the  gallery  who  endeavoured  to  cast  derision  on  the  service — I mean,  the  re- 
presentation ? ” 

We  basely  replied  that  we  rather  thought  we  had  noticed  such  a man.  I 
added,  “He  was  drunk,  no  doubt.” 

“ Oh  dear  no,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  “ not  drunk.  His  employer  would  see  to 
that,  sir.  His  employer  would  not  allow  him  to  be  drunk.” 

“ You  know  his  employer  ? ” said  I. 

Mr.  Wopsle  shut  his  eyes,  and  opened  them  again  ; performing  both  ceremonies 
veiv  slowly.  “You  must  have  observed,  gentlemen,”  said  he,  “ an  ignorant  and 
a blatant  ass,  with  a rasping  throat  and  a countenance  expressive  of  low  malignity, 
who  went  through — I will  not  say  sustained —the  role  (if  I may  use  a French 
expression)  of  Claudius  King  of  Denmark.  That  is  his  employer,  gentlemen. 
Such  is  the  profession ! ” 

Without  distinctly  knowing  whether  I should  have  been  more  sorry  for  Mr. 
Wopsle  if  he  had  been  in  despair,  I was  so  sorry  for  him  as  it  was,  that  I took 
the  opportunity  of  his  turning  round  to  have  his  braces  put  on — which  jostled  us 
out  at  the  doorway — to  ask  Herbert  what  he  thought  of  having  him  home  to 
supper  ? Herbert  said  he  thought  it  would  be  kind  to  do  so  ; therefore  I invited 
him,  and  he  went  to  Barnard’s  with  us,  wrapped  up  to  the  eyes,  and  we  did  our 
best  for  him,  and  he  sat  until  two  o’clock  in  the  morning,  reviewing  his  success  and 
developing  his  plans.  I forget  in  detail  what  they  were,  but  I have  a general  recol- 
lection that  he  was  to  begin  with  reviving  the  Drama,  and  to  end  with  crushing  it ; 
inasmuch  as  his  decease  would  leave  it  utterly  bereft  and  without  a chance  or  hope. 

Miserably  I went  to  bed  after  all,  and  miserably  thought  of  Estella,  and  miser- 
ably dreamed  that  my  expectations  were  all  cancelled,  and  that  I had  to  give  my 
hand  in  marriage  to  Herbert’s  Clara,  or  play  Hamlet  to  Miss  Havisham’s  Ghost, 
before  twenty  thousand  people,  without  knowing  twenty  words  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

One  day  when  I was  busy  with  my  books  and  Mr.  Pocket,  I received  a note  by 
the  post,  the  mere  outside  of  which  threw  me  into  a great  flutter ; for,  though  I 
had  never  seen  the  handwriting  in  which  it  was  addre  s^d,  I divined  whose  hand 
it  was.  It  had  no  set  beginning,  as  Dear  Mr.  Pip,  or  Dear  Pip,  or  Dear  Sir,  or 
Dear  Anything,  but  ran  thus  : 

“ I am  to  come  to  London  the  day  after  to-morrow  hy  the  mM-day  coach.  I believe  it  was  settled 
you  should  meet  me?  At  all  events  Miss  Havisham  has  that  impression,  and  i write  in  obedience 
to  it.  She  sends  you  her  regard. — Yours,  Estella.’’ 


374 


Great  Expei  ttions . 


If  there  had  been  time,  I should  probably  have  ordered  several  suits  of  clothe* 
for  this  occasion ; but  as  there  was  not,  I was  fain  to  be  content  with  those  I had. 
My  appetite  vanished  instantly,  and  I knew  no  peace  or  rest  until  the  day  arrived. 
Not  that  its  arrival  brought  me  either  ; for,  then  I was  worse  than  ever,  and  began 
haunting  the  coach-office  in  Wood-street,  Cheapside,  before  the  doach  had  left 
the  Blue  Boar  in  our  town.  For  all  that  I knew  this  perfectly  well,  I still  felt  as 
if  it  were  not  safe  to  let  the  coach-office  be  out  of  my  sight  longer  than  five 
minutes  at  a time ; and  in  this  condition  of  unreason  I had  performed  the  first 
half-hour  of  a watch  of  four  or  five  hours,  when  Wemmick  ran  against  me. 

“ Halloa,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  he,  “ how  do  you  do  ? I should  hardly  have  thought 
this  was  your  beat.” 

I explained  that  I was  waiting  to  meet  somebody  who  was  coming  up  by 
coach,  and  I inquired  after  the  Castle  and  the  Aged. 

“ Both  flourishing,  thankye,”  said  Wemmick,  “ and  particularly  the  Aged. 
He’s  in  wonderful  feather.  He’ll  be  eighty-two  next  birthday.  I have  a notion 
of  firing  eighty-two  times,  if  the  neighbouihood  shouldn’t  complain,  and  that 
cannon  of  mine  should  prove  equal  to  the  pressure.  However,  this  is  not  London 
talk.  Where  do  you  think  I am  going  to  ?” 

“ To  the  office,”  said  I,  for  he  was  tending  in  that  direction. 

“ Next  thing  to  it,”  returned  Wemmick,  “ I am  going  to  Newgate.  We  are  in 
a banker’s-parcel  case  just  at  present,  and  I have  been  down  the  road  taking  a 
squint  at  the  scene  of  action,  and  thereupon  must  have  a word  or  two  with  our 
client.” 

“ Did  your  client  commit  the  robbery  ? ” I asked. 

“ Bless  your  soul  and  body,  no,”  answered  Wemmick,  very  drily.  “ But  he  is 
accused  of  it.  So  might  you  or  I be.  Either  of  us  might  be  accused  of  it,  you 
know.” 

“ Only  neither  of  us  is,”  I remarked. 

“Yah!”  said  Wemmick,  touching  me  on  the  breast  with  his  forefinger; 
“ you’re  a deep  one,  Mr.  Pip ! Would  you  like  to  have  a look  at  Newgate  ? 
Have  you  time  to  spare  ?” 

I had  so  much  time  to  spare  that  the  proposal  came  as  a relief,  notwithstanding 
its  irreconcilability  with  my  latent  desire  to  keep  my  eye  on  the  coach-office. 
Muttering  that  I would  make  the  inquiry  whether  I had  time  to  walk  with  him, 
I went  into  the  office,  and  ascertained  from  the  clerk  with  the  nicest  precision  and 
much  to  the  trying  of  his  temper,  the  earliest  moment  at  which  the  coach  could  be 
expected — which  I knew  beforehand,  quite  as  well  as  he.  I then  rejoined  Mr. 
Wemmick,  and  affecting  to  consult  my  watch  and  to  be  surprised  by  the  informa- 
tion I had  received,  accepted  his  offer. 

We  were  at  Newgate  in  a few  minutes,  and  we  passed  through  the  lodge  where 
some  fetters  were  hanging  up  on  the  bare  walls  among  the  prison  rules,  into  the 
interior  of  the  jail.  At  that  time,  jails  were  much  neglected,  and  the  period  of 
exaggerated  reaction  consequent  on  all  public  wrong-doing — and  which  is  always 
its  heaviest  and  longest  punishment — was  still  far  off.  So,  felons  were  not  lodged 
and  fed  better  than  soldiers  (to  say  nothing  of  paupers),  and  seldom  set  fire  to 
their  prisons  with  the  excusable  object  of  improving  the  flavour  of  their  soup.  It 
was  visiting  time  when  Wemmick  took  me  in ; and  a potman  was  going  his 
rounds  with  beer;  and  the  prisoners,  behind  bars  in  yards,  were  buying  beer,  and 
talking  to  friends  ; and  a frouzy,  ugly,  disorderly,  depressing  scene  it  was. 

It  struck  me  that  Wemmick  walked  among  the  prisoners,  much  as  a gardener 
might  walk  among  his  plants.  This  was  first  put  into  my  head  by  his  seeing  a 
shoot  that  had  come  up  in  the  night,  and  saying,  “ What,  Captain  Tom  ? Are 
y ou  there  ; Ah,  indeed  ? ” and  also,  “ Is  that  Black  Bill  behind  the  cistern  1 


Wemmic}  at  ho?ne  in  Newgate. 


375 


Why  I didn’t  look  for  you  these  two  months;  how  do  you  find  yourself ?” 
Equally  in  his  stopping  at  the  bars  and  attending  to  anxious  whisperers — always 
singly — Wemmick,  with  his  post-office  in  an  immovable  state,  looked  at  them 
while  in  conference,  as  if  he  were  taking  particular  notice  of  the  advance  they  had 
made,  since  last  observed,  towards  coming  out  in  full  blow  at  their  trial. 

He  was  highly  popular,  and  I found  that  he  took  the  familiar  department  of 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  business  : though  something  of  the  state  of  Mr.  Jaggers  hung 
about  him  too,  forbidding  approach  beyond  certain  limits.  His  personal  recog- 
nition of  each  successive  client  was  comprised  in  a nod,  and  in  his  settling  his  hat 
a little  easier  on  his  head  with  both  hands,  and  then  tightening  the  post-office, 
and  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  In  one  or  two  instances,  there  was  a dif- 
ficulty respecting  the  raising  of  fees,  and  then  Mr.  Wemmick,  backing  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  insufficient  money  produced,  said,  “It’s  no  use,  my  boy.  I am 
only  a subordinate.  I can’t  take  it.  Don’t  go  on  in  that  way  with  a subordinate. 
If  you  are  unable  to  make  up  your  quantum,  my  boy,  you  had  better  address 
yourself  to  a principal ; there  are  plenty  of  principals  in  the  profession,  you  know, 
and  what  is  not  worth  the  while  of  one,  may  be  worth  the  while  of  another;  that’s 
my  recommendation  to  you,  speaking  as  a subordinate.  Don’t  try  on  useless 
measures.  Why  should  you  ? Now  who’s  next  ?” 

Thus,  we  walked  through  Wemmick’s  greenhouse,  until  he  turned  to  me  and 
said,  “ Notice  the  man  I shall  shake  hands  with.”  I should  have  done  so,  with- 
out the  preparation,  as  he  had  shaken  hands  with  no  one  yet. 

Almost  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  a portly  upright  man  (whom  I can  see  now. 
as  I write)  in  a well-worn  olive-coloured  frock-coat,  with  a peculiar  pallor  over- 
spreading the  red  in  his  complexion,  and  eyes  that  went  wandering  about  when 
he  tried  to  fix  them,  came  up  to  a corner  of  the  bars,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  hat — 
which  had  a greasy  and  fatty  surface  like  cold  broth — with  a half-serious  and 
half-jocose  military  salute. 

“ Colonel,  to  you  ! ” said  Wemmick  ; “ how  are  you,  Colonel  ?” 

“All  right,  Mr.  Wemmick.” 

• “Everything  was  done  that  could  be  done,  but  the  evidence  was  too  strong  for 
us,  Colonel.” 

“Yes,  it  was  too  strong,  sir — but  /don’t  care.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  Wemmick,  coolly,  “ you  don’t  care.”  Then,  turning  to  me, 
“ Served  His  Majesty,  this  man.  Was  a soldier  in  the  line  and  bought  his 
discharge.” 

I said,  “ Indeed  ?”  and  the  man’s  eyes  looked  at  me,  and  then  looked  over  my 
head,  and  then  looked  all  round  me,  and  then  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  lips  and 
laughed. 

“ I think  I shall  be  out  of  this  on  Monday,  sir,”  he  said  to  Wemmick. 

“ Perhaps,”  returned  my  friend,  “ but  there’s  no  knowing.” 

“ I am  glad  to  have  the  chance  of  bidding  you  good-bye,  Mr.  Wemmick,”  said 
the  man,  stretching  out  his  hand  between  two  bars. 

“ Thankye,”  said  Wemmick,  shaking  hands  with  him.  “ Same  to  you,  Colonel.” 

“ If  what  I had  upon  me  when  taken,  had  been  real,  Mr.  Wemmick,”  said  the 
man,  unwilling  to  let  his  hand  go,  “ I should  have  asked  the  favour  of  your  wear- 
ing another  ring — in  acknowledgment  of  your  attentions.” 

“I’ll  accept  the  will  for  the  deed,”  said  Wemmick.  “By-the-bye  ; you  were 
quite  a pigeon-fancier.”  The  man  looked  up  at  the  sky.  “ I am  told  you  had  a 
remarkable  breed  of  tumblers.  Could  you  commission  any  friend  of  yours  to  bring 
me  a pair,  if  you’ve  no  further  use  for  ’em  ?” 

'*  It  shall  be  done,  sir.” 

“Ail  right,”  sail  Wemmick,  “ they  shall  betaken  care  of.  Good  afterao.m,. 


37^ 


Great  Expectations . 


Colonel.  Good-bye  !”  They  shook  hands  again,  and  as  we  walked  away  Wem- 
mick  said  to  me,  “ A Coiner,  a very  good  workman.  The  Recorder’s  report  is  made 
to-day,  and  he  is  sure  to  be  executed  on  Monday.  Still  you  see,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
a pair  of  pigeons  are  portable  property,  all  the  same.”  With  that  he  looked  back, 
jind  nodded  at  his  dead  plant,  and  then  cast  his  eyes  about  him  in  walking  out  of 
the  yard,  as  if  he  were  considering  what  other  pot  would  go  best  in  its  place. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  prison  through  the  lodge,  I found  that  the  great  impor- 
tance of  my  guardian  was  appreciated  by  the  turnkeys,  no  less  than  by  those  whom 
they  held  in  charge.  “ Well,  Mr.  Wemmick,”  said  the  turnkey,  who  kept  us 
between  the  two  studded  and  spiked  lodge  gates,  and  who  carefully  locked  one 
before  he  unlocked  the  other,  “ What’s  Mr.  Jaggers  going  to  do  with  that  Water- 
side murder  ? Is  he  going  to  make  it  manslaughter,  or  what  is  he  going  to  make 
of  it  ?” 

“Why  don’t  you  ask  him  ?”  returned  Wemmick. 

“ Oh,  yes,  I dare  say  !”  said  the  turnkey. 

“ Now,  that’s  the  way  with  them  here,  Mr.  Pip,”  remarked  Wemmick,  turning 
to  me  with  his  post-office  elongated.  “ They  don’t  mind  what  they  ask  of  me, 
the  subordinate  ; but  you’ll  never  catch  ’em  asking  any  questions  of  my  principal.” 

“ Is  this  young  gentleman  one  of  the  ’prentices  or  articled  ones  of  your  office  ?” 
asked  the  turnkey,  with  a grin  at  Mr.  Wemmick’s  humour. 

“There  he  goes  again,  you  see!”  cried  Wemmick,  “I  told  you  so!  Asks 
another  question  of  the  subordinate  before  the  first  is  dry!  Well,  supposing  Mr. 
Pip  is  one  of  them  ?” 

“ Why  then,”  said  the  turnkey,  grinning  again,  “he  knows  what  Mr.  Jaggers 

is.” 

“Yah!”  cried  Wemmick,  suddenly  hitting  out  at  the  turnkey  in  a facetious 
way,  “ you’re  as  dumb  as  one  of  your  own  keys  when  you  have  to  do  with  my 
principal,  you  know  you  are.  Let  us’  out,  you  old  fox,  or  I’ll  get  him  to  bring  an 
action  against  you  for  false  imprisonment.” 

The  turnkey  laughed,  and  gave  us  good  day,  and  stood  laughing  at  us  over  the 
spikes  of  the  wicket  when  we  descended  the  steps  into  the  street. 

“ Mind  you,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  Wemmick,  gravely  in  my  ear,  as  he  took  my  arm  to 
be  more  confidential ; “I  don’t  know  that  Mr.  Jaggers  does  a better  thing  than 
the  way  in  which  he  keeps  himself  so  high.  He’s  always  so  high.  His  constant 
height  is  of  a piece  with  his  immense  abilities.  That  Colonel  durst  no  more  take 
leave  of  him , than  that  turnkey  durst  ask  him  his  intentions  respecting  a case. 
Then,  between  his  height  and  them,  he  slips  in  his  subordinate — don’t  you  see  ? 
— and  so  he  has  ’em,  soul  and  body.” 

I was  very  much  impressed,  and  not  for  the  first  time,  by  my  guardian's  subtlety. 
To  confess  the  truth,  I very  heartily  wished,  and  not  for  the  first  time,  that  I had 
had  some  other  guardian  of  minor  abilities.  i 

Mr.  Wemmick  and  I parted  at  the  office  in  Little  Britain,  where  suppliants  for 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  notice  were  lingering  about  as  usual,  and  I returned  to  my  watch  in 
the  street  of  the  coach-office,  with  some  three  hours  on  hand.  I consumed  the 
whole  time  in  thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  I should  be  encompassed  by  all 
this  taint  of  prison  and  crime  ; that,  in  my  childhood  out  on  our  lonely  marshes 
on  a winter  evening  I should  have  first  encountered  it ; that,  it  should  have  reap- 
peared on  two  occasions,  starting  out  like  a stain  that  was  faded  but  not  gone  ; 
that,  it  should  in  this  new  way  pervade  my  fortune  and  advancement.  While  my 
mind  was  thus  engaged,  I thought  of  the  beautiful  young  Estella,  proud  and 
refined,  coming  towards  me,  and  I thought  with  absolute  abhorrence  of  the  con- 
trast between  the  jail  and  her.  I wished  that  Wemmick  had  not  met  me,  or  that 
I had  not  yielded  to  him  and  gone  with  him,  so  that,  of  all  days  in  the  year  on  this 


377 


Estella  tells  me  whe^e  she  is  going . 


day,  1 might  not  ha^e  had  Newgate  in  my  breath  and  on  my  clothes.  I beat  the 
prison  dust  off  my  feet  as  I sauntered  to  and  fro,  and  I shook  it  out  of  my  dress, 
and  I exhaled  its  air  from  my  lungs.  So  contaminated  did  I feel,  remembering 
who  was  coming,  that  the  coach  came  quickly  after  all,  and  I was  not  yet  free 
from  the  soiling  consciousness  of  Mr.  Wemmick’s  conservatory,  when  I saw  her 
face  at  the  coach  window  and  her  hand  waving  to  me. 

What  was  the  nameless  shadow  which  again  in  that  one  instant  had  passed  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Ilf  her  furred  travelling-dress,  Estella  seemed  more  delicately  beautiful  than  she 
had  ever  seemed  yet,  even  in  my  eyes.  Her  manner  was  more  winning  than  she 
had  cared  to  let  it  be  to  me  before,  and  I thought  I saw  Miss  Havisham’s  influence 
in  the  change. 

We  stood  in  the  Inn  Yard  while  she  pointed  out  her  luggage  to  me,  and  when  it 
was  all  collected  I remembered — having  forgotten  everything  but  herself  in  the 
meanwhile — that  I knew  nothing  of  her  destination. 

“ I am  going  to  Richmond,”  she  told  me.  “ Our  lesson  is,  that  there  are  two 
Richmonds,  one  in  Surrey  and  one  in  Yorkshire,  and  that  mine  is  the  Surrey 
Richmond.  The  distance  is  ten  miles.  I am  to  have  a carriage,  and  you  are  ter 
take  me.  This  is  my  purse,  and  you  are  to  pay  my  charges  out  of  it.  Oh,  you 
must  take  the  purse  ! We  have  no  choice,  you  and  I,  but  to  obey  our  instructions. 
We  are  not  free  to  follow  our  own  devices,  you  and  I.” 

As  she  looked  at  me  in  giving  me  the  purse,  I hoped  there  was  an  inner  mean- 
ing in  her  words.  She  said  them  slightingly,  but  not  with  displeasure. 

“ A carriage  will  have  to  be  sent  for,  Estella.  Will  you  rest  here  a little  ?” 

“ Yes,  I am  to  rest  here  a little,  and  I am  to  drink  some  tea,  and  you  are  to  take 
care  of  me  the  while.” 

She  drew  her  arm  through  mine,  as  if  it  must  be  done,  and  I requested  a waiter 
who  had  been  staring  at  the  coach  like  a man  who  had  never  seen  such  a thing 
in  his  life,  to  show  us  a private  sitting-room.  Upon  that,  he  pulled  out  a napkin, 
as  if  it  were  a magic  clue  without  which  he  couldn’t  find  the  way  up-stairs,  and 
led  us  to  the  black  hqje  of  the  establishment : fitted  up  with  a diminishing  mirroi 
(quite  a superfluous  article  considering  the  hole’s  proportions),  an  anchovy  sauce- 
cruet,  and  somebody’s  pattens.  On  my  objecting  to  this  retreat,  he  took  us  into 
another  room  with  a dinner-table  for  thirty,  and  in  the  grate  a scorched  leaf  of  a 
copy-book  under  a bushel  of  coal-dust.  Having  looked  at  this  extinct  conflagra- 
tion and  shaken  his  head,  he  took  my  order : which,  proving  to  be  merely  “Some 
tea  for  the  lady,”  sent  him  out  of  the  room  in  a very  low  state  of  mind. 

I was,  and  I am,  sensible  that  the  air  of  this  chamber,  in  its  strong  combination 
of  stable  with  soup-stock,  might  have  led  one  to  infer  that  the  coaching  department 
was  not  doing  well,  and  that  the  enterprising  proprietor  was  boiling  down  the 
horses  for  the  refreshment  department.  Yet  the  room  was  all  in  all  to  me,  Estella 
being  in  it.  I thought  that  with  her  I could  have  been  happy  there  for  life.  (I 
was  not  at  all  happy  there  at  the  time,  observe,  and  I knew  it  well.) 

“ Where  are  you  going  to,  at  Richmond  ?”  I asked  Estella. 

“ I am  going  to  live,”  said  she,  “ at  a great  expense,  with  a lady  there,  who  has 
the  power — or  says  she  has — of  taking  me  about,  and  introducing  me,  and  showing 
people  to  me  and  showing  me  to  people.” 

“ I suppose  you  will  be  glad  of  variety  and  admiration  ?” 


378 


Great  Expectations . 


“Yes,  I suppose  so.” 

She  answered  so  carelessly,  that  I said,  “ You  speak  of  yourself  as  if  you  were 
jome  one  else.” 

“ Where  did  you  learn  how  I speak  of  others?  Come,  come,”  said  Estella, 
smiling  delightfully,  “ you  must  not  expect  me  to  go  to  school  to  you  ; I must 
talk  in  my  own  way.  How  do  you  thrive  with  Mr.  Pocket  ?” 

“ I live  quite  pleasantly  there ; at  least ” It  appeared  to  me  that  I was 

losing  a chance. 

“ At  least  ?”  repeated  Estella. 

“ As  pleasantly  as  I could  anywhere,  away  from  you.” 

“You  silly  boy,”  said  Estella,  quite  composedly,  “how  can  you  talk  such 
nonsense  ? Your  friend  Mr.  Matthew,  I believe,  is  superior  to  the  rest  of  his 
family  ?” 

“ Very  superior  indeed.  He  is  nobody’s  enemy ” 

“ — Don’t  add  but  his  own,”  interposed  Estella,  “ for  I hate  that  class  of  man. 
But  he  really  is  disinterested,  and  above  small  jealousy  and  spite,  I have 
heard  ?” 

“ I am  sure  I have  every  reason  to  say  so.” 

“ You  have  not  every  reason  to  say  so  of  the  rest  of  his  people,”  said  Estella, 
nodding  at  me  with  an  expression  of  face  that  was  at  once  grave  and  rallying,  “foi 
they  beset  Miss  Havisham  with  reports  and  insinuations  to  your  disadvantage. 
They  watch  you,  misrepresent  you,  write  letters  about  you  (anonymous  sometimes), 
and  you  are  the  torment  and  occupation  of  their  lives.  You  can  scarcely  realise 
to  yourself  the  hatred  those  people  feel  for  you.” 

“ They  do  me  no  harm,  I hope  ?” 

Instead  of  answering,  Estella  burst  out  laughing.  This  was  very  singular  to 
me,  and  I looked  at  her  in  considerable  perplexity.  When  she  left  off — and  she 
had  not  laughed  languidly,  but  with  real  enjoyment — I said,  in  my  diffident  way 
with  her : 

“I  hope  I may  suppose  that  you  would  not  be  amused  if  they  did  me  any 
harm  ?” 

“ No,  no,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,”  said  Estella.  “ You  may  be  certain  that  I 
laugh  because  they  fail.  Oh,  those  people  with  Miss  Havisham,  and  the  tortures 
they  undergo  !”  She  laughed  again,  and  even  now,  when  she  had  told  me  why, 
her  laughter  was  very  singular  to  me,  for  I could  not  doubt  its  being  genuine,  and 
yet  it  seemed  too  much  for  the  occasion.  I thought  there  must  really  be  some- 
thing more  here  than  I knew  ; she  saw  the  thought  in  my  mind  and  answered  it. 

“ It  is  not  easy  for  even  you,”  said  Estella,  “ to  know  what  satisfaction  it  gives 
me  to  see  those  people  thwarted,  or  what  an  enjoyable  sense  of  the  ridiculous  I 
nave  when  they  are  made  ridiculous.  For  you  were  not  brought  up  in  that  strange 
house  from  a mere  baby. — I was.  You  had  not  your  little  wits  sharpened  by  their 
intriguing  against  you,  suppressed  and  defenceless,  under  the  mask  of  sympathy 
and  pity  and  what  not,  that  is  soft  and  soothing. — I had.  You  did  not  gradually 
open  your  round  childish  eyes  wider  and  wider  to  the  discovery  of  that  impostor  of 
a woman  who  calculates  her  stores  of  peace  of  mind  for  when  she  wakes  up  in  the 
night.— I did.” 

It  was  no  laughing  matter  with  Estella  now,  nor  was  she  summoning  these 
remembrances  from  any  shallow  place.  I would  not  have  been  the  cause  of  that 
look  of  hers,  for  all  my  expectations  in  a heap. 

“Two  things  I can  tell  you,”  said  Estella.  “First,  notwithstanding  the  pro- 
verb, that  constant  dropping  will  wear  away  a stone,  you  may  set  your  mind  at 
rest  that  these  people  never  will — never  would  in  a hundred  years — impair  youi 
ground  with  Miss  Havisham,  in  any  particular,  great  or  small.  Second,  I am 


1 take  E stella  to  her  destination. 


379 


beholden  to  you  as  the  cause  of  their  being  so  busy  and  so  mean  in  vain,  and  there 
is  my  hand  upon  it.” 

As  she  gave  it  me  playfully — for  her  darker  mood  had  been  but  momentary — 
I held  it  and  put  it  to  my  lips.  “ You  ridiculous  boy,”  said  Estella,  “ will  you  never 
take  warning  ? Or  do  you  kiss  my  hand  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  I once  let  you 
kiss  my  cheek  ?” 

“ What  spirit  was  that  ?”  said  I. 

“ I must  think  a moment.  A spirit  of  contempt  for  the  fawners  and  plotters.” 
“ If  I say  yes,  may  I kiss  the  cheek  again  ?” 

“You  should  have  asked  before  you  touched  the  hand.  But,  yes,  if  you  like.” 
I leaned  down,  and  her  calm  face  was  like  a statue’s.  “ Now,”  said  Estella* 
gliding  away  the  instant  1 touched  her  cheek,  “you  are  to  take  care  that  I have 
some  tea,  and  you  are  to  take  me  to  Richmond.” 

Her  reverting  to  this  tone  as  if  our  association  were  forced  upon  us  and  we  were 
mere  puppets,  gave  me  pain ; but  everything  in  our  intercourse  did  give  me  pain. 
Whatever  her  tone  with  me  happened  to  be,  I could  put  no  trust  in  it,  and  build 
no  hope  on  it ; and  yet  I went  on  against  trust  and  against  hope.  Why  repeat  it 
a thousand  times  ? So  it  always  was. 

I rang  for  the  tea,  and  the  waiter,  reappearing  with  his  magic  clue,  brought  in 
by  degrees  some  fifty  adjuncts  to  that  refreshment,  but  of  tea  not  a glimpse.  A 
teaboard,  cups  and  saucers,  plates,  knives  and  forks  (including  carvers),  spoons 
(various),  salt-cellars,  a meek  little  muffin  confined  with  the  utmost  precaution 
under  a strong  iron  cover,  Moses  in  the  bullruslies  typified  by  a soft  bit  of  butter 
in  a quantity  of  parsley,  a pale  loaf  with  a powdered  head,  two  proof  impressions 
of  the  bars  of  the  kitchen  fire-place  on  triangular  bits  of  bread,  and  ultimately  a 
fat  family  urn  : which  the  waiter  staggered  in  with,  expressing  in  his  countenance 
burden  and  suffering.  After  a prolonged  absence  at  this  stage  of  the  entertain- 
ment, he  at  length  came  back  with  a casket  of  precious  appearance  containing 
twigs.  These  I steeped  in  hot  water,  and  so  from  the  whole  of  these  appliances 
extracted  one  cup  of  I don’t  know  what,  for  Estella. 

The  bill  paid,  and  the  waiter  remembered,  and  the  ostler  not  forgotten,  and  the 
chambermaid  taken  into  consideration  —in  a word,  the  whole  house  bribed  into  a 
state  of  contempt  and  animosity,  and  Estella’s  purse  much  lightened — we  got  into 
our  post-coach  and  drove  away.  Turning  into  Cheapside  and  rattling  up  Newgate- 
street,  we  were  soon  under  the  walls  of  which  I was  so  ashamed. 

“ What  place  is  that  ?”  Estella  asked  me. 

I made  a foolish  pretence  of  not  at  first  recognising  it,  and  then  told  her.  As 
she  looked  at  it,  and  drew  in  her  head  again,  murmuring  “ Wretches  !”  I would 
not  have  confessed  to  my  visit  for  any  consideration. 

“ Mr.  Jaggers,”  said  I,  by  way  of  putting  it  neatly  on  somebody  else,  “ has  the 
reputation  of  being  more  in  the  secrets  of  that  dismal  place  than  any  man  in  London.” 
“ He  is  more  in  the  secrets  of  every  place,  I think,”  said  Estella,  in  a low  voice. 
“ You  have  been  accustomed  to  see  him  often,  I suppose  ?” 

“ I have  been  accustomed  to  see  him  at  uncertain  intervals,  ever  since  I can 
remember.  But  I know  him  no  better  now,  than  I did  before  I could  speak 
plainly.  What  is  your  own  experience  of  him  ? Do  you  advance  with  him  ?” 

“ Once  habituated  to  his  distrustful  manner,”  said  I,  “ I have  done  very  well.” 

“ Are  you  intimate  ?” 

“ I have  dined  with  him  at  his  private  house.” 

“ I fancy,”  said  Estella,  shrinking,  “ that  must  be  a curious  place.” 

“ It  is  a curious  place.” 

I should  have  been  chary  of  discussing  my  guardian  too  freely  even  with  her: 
hut  I sh.uld  have  gone  on  with  the  subject  so  far  as  to  describe  the  dinner  is 


380 


Great  Expectations. 


Gei rard-street,  if  we  had  not  then  come  into  a sudden  glare  of  gas.  It  seemed, 
while  it  lasted,  to  be  all  alight  and  alive  with  that  inexplicable  feeling  I had  had 
before  ; and  when  we  were  out  of  it,  I was  as  much  dazed  for  a few  moments  as  ii 
I had  been  in  Lightning. 

So,  we  fell  into  other  talk,  and  it  was  principally  about  the  way  by  which  we 
were  travelling,  and  about  what  parts  of  London  lay  on  this  side  of  it,  and  what 
on  that.  The  great  city  was  almost  new  to  her,  she  told  me,  for  she  had  never 
left  Miss  Havisham’s  neighbourhood  until  she  had  gone  to  France,  and  she  had 
merely  passed  through  London  then  in  going  and  returning.  I asked  her  if  my 
guardian  had  any  charge  of  her  while  she  remained  here  ? To  that  she  emphati- 
cally said,  “ God  forbid  I”  and  no  more. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  avoid  seeing  that  she  cared  to  attract  me  ; that  she 
made  herself  winning  ; and  would  have  won  me  even  if  the  task  had  needed  pains. 
Yet  this  made  me  none  the  happier,  for,  even  if  she  had  not  taken  that  tone  of  our 
being  disposed  of  by  others,  I should  have  felt  that  she  held  my  heart  in  her 
hand  because  she  wilfully  chose  to  do  it,  and  not  because  it  would  have  wrung 
any  tenderness  in  her,  to  crush  it  and  throw  it  away. 

When  we  passed  through  Hammersmith,  I showed  her  where  Mr.  Matthew 
Pocket  lived,  and  said  it  was  no  great  way  from  Richmond,  and  that  .1  hoped  I 
should  see  her  sometimes. 

“ Oh  yes,  you  are  to  see  me  ; you  are  to  come  when  you  think  proper ; you  are 
to  be  mentioned  to  the  family  ; indeed  you  are  already  mentioned.” 

I inquired  was  it  a large  household  she  was  going  to  be  a member  of  ? 

“No;  there  are  only  two  ; mother  and  daughter.  The  mother  is  a lady  of  some 
station,  though  not  averse  to  increasing  her  income.” 

“ I wonder  Miss  Havisham  could  part  with  you  again  so  soon.” 

“ It  is  a part  of  Miss  Havisham’s  plans  for  me,  Pip,”  said  Estella,  with  a sigh, 
as  if  she  were  tired  ; “I  am  to  write  to  her  constantly  and  see  her  regularly,  and 
report  how  I go  on — I and  the  jewels — for  they  are  nearly  all  mine  now.” 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  me  by  my  name.  Of  course  she  did 
bo  purposely,  and  knew  that  I should  treasure  it  up. 

We  came  to  Richmond  all  too  soon,  and  our  destination  there,  was  a house  by 
the  Green  : a staid  old  house,  where  hoops  and  powder  and  patches,  embroidered 
coats,  rolled  stockings,  ruffles,  and  swords,  had  had  their  court  days  many  a time. 
Some  ancient  trees  before  the  house  were  still  cut  into  fashions  as  formal  and 
unnatural  as  the  hoops  and  wigs  and  stiff  skirts ; but  their  own  allotted  places  in 
the  great  procession  of  the  dead  were  not  far  off,  and  they  would  soon  drop  into 
them  and  go  the  silent  way  of  the  rest. 

A bell  with  an  old  voice — which  I dare  say  in  its  time  had  often  said  to  the 
house,  Here  is  the  green  farthingale,  Here  is  the  diamond-hilted  sword,  Here  are 
the  shoes  with  red  heels  and  the  blue  solitaire, — sounded  gravely  in  the  moonlight, 
and  two  cherry-coloured  maids  came  fluttering  out  to  receive  Estella.  The  door- 
way soon  absorbed  her  boxes,  and  she  gave  me  her  hand  and  a smile,  and  said 
good  night,  and  was  absorbed  likewise.  And  still  I stood  looking  at  the  house, 
thinking  how  happy  I should  be  if  I lived  therewith  her,  and  knowing  that  I never 
was  hap]  ly  with  her,  but  always  miserable. 

I got  into  the  carriage  to  be  taken  back  to  Hammersmith,  and  I got  in  with  a 
bad  heart-ache,  and  I got  out  with  a worse  heart-ache.  At  our  own  door  I found 
little  Jane  Pocket  coming  home  from  a little  party,  escorted  by  her  little  lover  ; 
and  I envied  her  little  lover,  in  spite  of  his  being  subject  to  Flopson. 

Mr.  Pocket  was  out  lecturing ; for  he  was  a most  delightful  lecturer  on  domestic 
economy,  and  his  treatises  on  the  management  of  children  and  servants  were  con« 
aidered  the  veiy  best  text-books  on  those  themes.  Biff  Mrs.  Pocket  was  at  home, 


The  Finches  of  the  Grove . 


38i 


ind  was  in  a little  difficulty,  on  account  of  the  baby’s  having  been  accommodated 
with  a needle-case  to  keep  him  quiet  during  the  unaccountable  absence  (with  a 
relative  in  the  Foot  Guards)  of  Millers.  And  more  needles  were  missing  than  it 
could  be  regarded  as  quite  wholesome  for  a patient  of  such  tender  years  either  to 
apply  externally  or  to  take  as  a tonic. 

Mr.  Pocket  being  justly  celebrated  for  giving  most  excellent  practical  advice, 
and  for  having  a clear  and  sound  perception  of  things  and  a highly  judicious  mind, 
I had  some  notion  in  my  heart-ache  of  begging  him  to  accept  my  confidence.  But 
happening  to  look  up  at  Mrs.  Pocket  as  she  sat  reading  her  book  of  dignities  after 
prescribing  Bed  as  a sovereign  remedy  for  baby,  I thought — Well — No,  I 
wouldn’t. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

As  I had  grown  accustomed  to  my  expectations,  I had  insensibly  begun  to  notice 
their  effect  upon  myself  and  those  around  me.  Their  influence  on  my  own 
character  I disguised  from  my  recognition  as  much  as  possible,  but  I knew  very 
well  that  it  was  not  all  good.  I lived  in  a state  of  chronic  uneasiness  respecting 
my  behaviour  to  Joe.  My  conscience  was  not  by  any  means  comfortable  about 
Biddy.  When  I woke  up  in  the  night — like  Camilla — I used  to  think,  with  a 
weariness  on  my  spirits,  that  I should  have  been  happier  and  better  if  I had  never 
seen  Miss  Havisham’s  face,  and  had  risen  to  manhood  content  to  be  partners  with 
Joe  in  the  honest  old  forge.  Many  a time  of  an  evening,  when  I sat  alone  look- 
ing at  the  fire,  I thought,  after  all,  there  was  no  fire  like  the  forge  fire  and  the 
kitchen  fire  at  home. 

Yet  Estella  was  so  inseparable  from  all  my  restlessness  and  disquiet  of  mind, 
that  I really  fell  into  confusion  as  to  the  limits  of  my  own  part  in  its  production. 
That  is  to  say,  supposing  I had  had  no  expectations,  and  yet  had  had  Estella  to  think 
of,  I could  not  make  out  to  my  satisfaction  that  I should  have  done  much  better. 
Now,  concerning  the  influence  of  my  position  on  others,  I was  in  no  such  diffi- 
culty, and  so  I perceived — though  dimly  enough  perhaps — that  it  was  not  benefi- 
cial to  anybody,  and,  above  all,  that  it  was  not  beneficial  to  Herbert.  My  lavish 
habits  led  his  easy  nature  into  expenses  that  he  could  not  afford,  corrupted  the 
simplicity  of  his  life,  and  disturbed  his  peace  with  anxieties  and  regrets.  I was 
not  at  all  remorseful  for  having  unwittingly  set  those  other  branches  of  the  Pocket 
family  to  the  poor  arts  they  practised:  because  such  littlenesses  were  their  natural 
bent,  and  would  have  been  evoked  by  anybody  else,  if  I had  left  them  slumbering. 
But  Herbert’s  was  a very  different  case,  and  it  often  caused  me  a twinge  to  think 
that  I had  done  him  evil  service  in  crowding  his  sparely-furnished  chambers  with 
incongruous  upholstery  work,  and  placing  the  canary-breasted  Avenger  at  his 
disposal. 

So  now,  as  an  infallible  way  of  making  little  ease  great  ease,  I began  to  contrac/ 
a quantity  of  debt.  I could  hardly  begin  but  Herbert  must  begin  too,  so  he  soon 
followed.  At  Startop’s  suggestion,  we  put  ourselves  down  for  election  into  a 
club  called  the  Finches  of  the  Grove  : the  object  of  which  institution  I have  never 
divined,  if  it  were  not  that  the  members  should  dine  expensively  once  a fortnight, 
to  quarrel  among  themselves  as  much  as  possible  after  dinner,  and  to  cause  six 
waiters  to  get  drunk  on  the  stairs.  I know  that  these  gratifying  social  ends  were  -o 
invariably  accomplished,  that  Herbert  and  I understood  nothing  else  to  be  referred 
to  in  the  first  standing  toast  of  the  society : which  ran,  “Gentlemen,  may  the  present 
promotion  of  gocd  feeling  ever  reign  predominant  among  the  Finches  of  the  Grove- 


382  Great  Expectations . 

The  Finches  spent  their  money  foolishly  (the  Hotel  we  dined  at  was  in  Covent 
Garden),  and  the  first  Finch  I saw  when  I had  die  honour  of  joining  the  Grove 
was  Bentley  Drummle  : at  that  time  floundering  about  town  in  a cab  cf  his  own, 
and  doitg  a great  deal  of  damage  to  the  posts  at  the  street  corners.  Occasion- 
ally he  shot  himself  out  of  his  equipage  head-foremost  over  the  apron ; and  I 
saw  him  on  one  occasion  deliver  himseli  at  the  door  of  the  Grove  in  this  unin- 
tentional way — like  coals.  But  here  I anticipate  a little,  for  I was  not  a Finch, 
and  could  not  be,  according  to  the  sacred  laws  of  the  society,  until  I came  of 
age. 

In  my  confidence  in  my  own  resources,  I would  willingly  have  taken  Herbert’s 
expenses  on  myself ; but  Herbert  was  proud,  and  I could  make  no  such  proposal 
to  him.  So,  he  got  into  difficulties  in  every  direction,  and  continued  to  look 
about  him.  When  we  gradually  fell  into  keeping  late  hours  and  late  company, 
I noticed  that  he  looked  about  him  with  a desponding  eye  at  breakfast-time  ; 
that  he  began  to  look  about  him  more  hopefully  about  mid-day ; that  he  drooped 
when  he  came  into  dinner ; that  he  seemed  to  descry  Capital  in  the  distance, 
rather  clearly,  after  dinner ; that  he  all  but  realised  Capital  towards  midnight ; 
and  that  about  two  o’clock  in  the  morning,  he  became  so  deeply  despondent 
again  as  to  talk  of  buying  a rifle  and  going  to  America,  with  a general  purpose 
of  compelling  buffaloes  to  make  his  fortune. 

I was  usually  at  Hammersmith  about  half  the  week,  and  when  I was  at 
Hammersmith  I haunted  Richmond : whereof  separately  by-and-by.  Herbert 
would  often  come  to  Hammersmith  when  I was  there,  and  I think  at  those  seasons 
his  father  would  occasionally  have  some  passing  perception  that  the  opening  he 
was  looking  for  had  not  appeared  yet.  But  in  the  general  tumbling  up  of  the 
family,  his  tumbling  out  in  life  somewhere,  was  a thing  to  transact  itself  some- 
how. In  the  meantime  Mr.  Pocket  grew  greyer,  and  tried  oftener  to  lift  himself 
out  of  his  perplexities  by  the  hair.  While  Mrs.  Pocket  tripped  up  the  family 
with  her  footstool,  read  her  book  of  dignities,  lost  her  pocket-handkerchief,  told 
us  about  her  grandpapa,  and  taught  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,  by  shooting 
it  into  bed  whenever  it  attracted  her  notice. 

As  I am  now  generalising  a period  of  my  life  with  the  object  of  clearing  my 
way  before  me,  I can  scarcely  do  so  better  than  by  at  once  completing  the 
description  of  our  usual  manners  and  customs  at  Barnard’s  Inn. 

We  spent  as  much  money  as  we  could,  and  got  as  little  for  it  as  people  could 
make  up  their  minds  to  give  us.  We  were  always  more  or  less  miserable,  and 
most  of  our  acquaintance  were  in  the  same  condition.  There  was  a gay  fiction 
among  us  that  we  were  constantly  enjoying  ourselves,  and  a skeleton  truth  that 
we  never  did.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  our  case  was  in  the  last  aspect  a rather 
common  one. 

Every  morning,  with  an  air  ever  new,  Herbert  went  into  the  City  to  look  about 
him.  I often  paid  him  a visit  in  the  dark  back-room  in  which  he  consorted  with 
an  ink-jar,  a hat-peg,  a coal-box,  u string-box,  an  almanack,  a desk  and  stool, 
and  a ruler ; and  I do  not  remember  that  I ever  saw  him  do  anything  else  but 
look  about  him.  If  we  all  did  what  we  undertake  to  do,  as  faithfully  as  Herbert 
did,  we  might  live  in  a Republic  of  the  Virtues.  He  had  nothing  else  to  do,  poor 
fellow,  except  at  a certain  hour  of  every  afternoon  to  “go  to  Lloyd’s  ” — in  observ- 
ance of  a ceremony  of  seeing  his  principal,  I think.  He  never  did  anything  else 
in  connexion  with  Lloyd’s  that  I could  find  out,  except  come  back  again.  When 
he  felt  his  case  unusually  serious,  and  that  he  positively  must  find  an  opening,  he 
would  go  on  ’Change  at  a busy  time,  and  walk  in  and  out,  in  a kind  of  gloomy 
country  dance  figure,  among  the  assembled  magnates.  “ For,”  says  Herbert  to 
me,  coming  home  to  dinner  on  one  of  those  special  occasions,  “ I find  the  truth 


3-3 


Herbert  ana  I look  our  affairs  in  the  face . 

to  be,  Handel,  that  an  opening  won’t  come  to  one,  but  one  must  go  to  it so  1 

have  been.” 

If  we  had  been  less  attached  to  one  another,  I think  we  must  have  hated  one 
another  regularly  every  morning.  I detested  the  chambers  beyond  expression  at 
that  period  of  repentance,  and  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  the  Avenger’s  livery  : 
which  had  a more  expensive  and  a less  remunerative  appearance  then,  than  at  any 
other  time  in  the  four-and-twenty  hours.  As  we  got  more  and  more  into  debt, 
breakfast  became  a hollower  and  hollower  form,  and  being  on  one  occasion  at 
breakfast-time  threatened  (by  letter)  with  legal  proceedings,  “ not  unwholly  un- 
connected,” as  my  local  paper  might  put  it,  “with  jewellery,”  I went  so  far  as  to 
seize  the  Avenger  by  his  blue  collar  and  shake  him  off  his  feet — so  that  he  was 
actually  in  the  air,  like  a booted  Cupid — for  presuming  to  suppose  that  we  wanted 
a roll. 

At  certain  times — meaning  at  uncertain  times,  for  they  depended  on  our  humour 
— I would  say  to  Herbert,  as  if  it  were  a remarkable  discovery  : 

“ My  dear  Herbert,  we  are  getting  on  badly.” 

“My  dear  Handel,”  Herbert  would  say  to  me,  in  all  sincerity,  “if  you  will 
believe  me,  those  very  words  were  on  my  lips,  by  a strange  coincidence.” 

“ Then,  Herbert,”  I would  respond,  “ let  us  look  into  our  affairs.” 

We  always  derived  profound  satisfaction  from  making  an  appointment  for  this 
purpose.  I always  thought  this  was  business,  this  was  the  way  to  confront  the 
thing,  this  was  the  way  to  take  the  foe  by  the  throat.  And  I know  Herbert 
thought  so  too. 

We  ordered  something  rather  special  for  dinner,  with  a bottle  of  something 
similarly  out  of  the  common  way,  in  order  that  our  minds  might  be  fortified  for 
the  occasion,  and  we  might  come  well  up  to  the  mark.  Dinner  over,  we  pro- 
duced a bundle  of  pens,  a copious  supply  of  ink,  and  a goodly  show  of  writing 
and  blotting  paper.  For,  there  was  something  very  comfortable  in  having  plenty 
of  stationery. 

I would  then  take  a sheet  of  paper,  and  write  across  the  top  of  it,  in  a neat 
land,  the  heading,  “ Memorandum  of  Pip’s  debts ;”  with  Barnard’s  Inn  and  the 
date  very  carefully  added.  Herbert  would  also  take  a sheet  of  paper,  and  write 
across  it  with  similar  formalities,  “ Memorandum  of  Herbert’s  debts.” 

Each  of  us  would  then  refer  to  a confuted  heap  of  papers  at  his  side,  which  had 
been  thrown  into  drawers,  worn  into  holes  in  pockets,  half-burnt  in  lighting 
candles,  stuck  for  weeks  into  the  looking-glass,  and  otherwise  damaged.  The 
sound  of  our  pens  going  refreshed  us  exceedingly,  insomuch  that  I sometimes 
found  it  difficult  to  distinguish  between  this  edifying  business  proceeding  and 
actually  paying  the  money.  In  point  of  meritorious  character,  the  two  things 
seemed  about  equal. 

When  we  had  written  a little  while,  I would  ask  Herbert  how  he  got  on  ? 
Herbert  probably  would  have  been  scratching  his  head  in  a most  rueful  manner  at 
the  sight  of  his  accumulating  figures. 

“They  are  mounting  up,  Handel,”  Herbert  would  say  ; “ upon  my  life  they  are 
mounting  up.” 

“Be  firm,  Herbert,”  I would  retort,  plying  my  own  pen  with  great  assiduity. 
“ Look  the  thing  in  the  face.  Look  into  your  affairs.  Stare  them  out  of  counte- 
nance.” 

“ So  I would,  Handel,  only  they  are  staring  me  out  of  countenance.” 

However,  my  determined  manner  would  have  its  effect,  and  Herbert  would  fall 
to  work  again.  After  a time  he  would  give  up  once  more,  on  the  plea  that  he  had 
not  got  Cobbs’s  bill,  or  Lobbs’s,  or  Nobbs’s,  as  the  case  might  be. 

“Then,  Herbert,  estimate;  estimate  it  in  tound  numbers,  and  put  it  down.’1 


Great  Expectations . 


384 


“What  a fellow  of  resource  you  are !”  my  friend  would  reply,  with  admiration. 
“Really  your  business  powers  are  very  remarkable.” 

I thought  so  too.  I established  with  myself,  on  these  occasions,  the  reputation 
of  a first-rate  man  of  business — prompt,  decisive,  energetic,  clear,  cool-headed. 
When  I had  got  all  my  responsibilities  down  upon  my  list,  I compared  each  with 
the  bill,  and  ticked  it  off.  My  self-app;oval  when  I ticked  an  entry  was  quite  a 
luxurious  sensation.  When  I had  no  more  ticks  to  make,  I folded  all  my  bills  up 
uniformly,  docketed  each  on  the  back,  and  tied  the  whole  into  a symmetrical 
bundle.  Then  I did  the  same  for  Herbert  (who  modestly  said  he  had  not  my  ad- 
ministrative genius),  and  felt  that  I had  brought  his  affairs  into  a focus  for  him. 

My  business  habits  had  one  other  bright  feature,  which  I called  “leaving  a 
Margin.”  For  example  ; supposing  Herbert’s  debts  to  be  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
four  pounds  four-and-twopence,  I would  say,  “Leave  a margin,  and  put  them 
down  at  two  hundred.”  Or,  supposing  my  own  to  be  four  times  as  much,  I would 
leave  a margin,  and  put  them  down  at  seven  hundred.  I had  the  highest  opinion 
of  the  wisdom  of  this  same  Margin,  but  I am  bound  to  acknowledge  that  on  look- 
ing back,  I deem  it  to  have  been  an  expensive  device.  For,  we  always  ran  into 
new  debt  immediately,  to  the  full  extent  of  the  margin,  and  sometimes,  in  the  sense 
of  freedom  and  solvency  it  imparted,  got  pretty  far  on  into  another  margin. 

But  there  was  a calm,  a rest,  a virtuous  hush,  consequent  on  these  examinations 
of  our  affairs,  that  gave  me,  for  the  time,  an  admirable  opinion  of  myself.  Soothed 
by  my  exertions,  my  method,  and  Herbert’s  compliments,  I would  sit  with  his 
symmetrical  bundle  and  my  own  on  the  table  before  me  among  the  stationery,  and 
feel  like  a Bank  of  some  sort,  rather  than  a private  individual. 

We  shut  our  outer  door  on  these  solemn  occasions  in  order  that  we  might  not 
be  interrupted.  I had  fallen  into  my  serene  state  one  evening,  when  we  heard  a 
letter  dropped  through  the  slit  in  the  said  door,  and  fall  on  the  ground.  “It’s  for  you, 
Handel,”  said  Herbert,  going  out  and  coming  back  with  it,  “ and  I hope  there  is 
nothing  the  matter.”  This  was  in  allusion  to  its  heavy  black  seal  and  border. 

The  letter  was  signed  Trabb  & Co.,  and  its  contents  were  simply,  that  I was  an 
honoured  sir,  and  that  they  begged  to  inform  me  that  Mrs.  J.  Gargery  had  de- 
parted this  life  on  Monday  last  at  twenty  minutes  past  six  in  the  evening,  and  that 
my  attendance  was  requested  at  the  interment  on  Monday  next  at  thr  e o’clock  in 
the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  a grave  had  opened  in  my  road  of  life,  and  the  gap  it 
made  in  the  smooth  ground  was  wonderful.  The  figure  of  my  sister  in  her  chair 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  haunted  me  night  and  day.  That  the  place  could  possibly  be, 
without  her,  was  something  my  mind  seemed  unable  to  compass  ; and  whereas  she 
had  seldom  or  never  been  in  my  thoughts  of  late,  Iliad  now  the  strangest  idea  that 
she  was  coming  towards  me  in  the  street,  or  that  she  would  presently  knock  at  the 
door.  In  my  rooms  too,  with  which  she  had  never  been  at  all  associated,  there 
was  at  once  the  blankness  of  death  and  a perpetual  suggestion  of  the  sound  of  her 
voice  or  the  turn  of  her  face  or  figure,  as  if  she  were  still  alive  and  had  been  often 
there. 

Whatever  my  fortunes  might  have  been,  I could  scarcely  have  recalled  my  sister 
with  much  tenderness.  But  I suppose  there  is  a shock  of  regret  which  may  exist 
without  much  tenderness.  Under  its  influence  (and  perhaps  to  make  up  for  the 
want  of  the  softer  feeling)  I was  seized  with  a violent  indignation  against  die 


My  Sister  s Funeral. 


385 


assailant  from  whom  she  had  suffered  so  much  ; and  I felt  that  on  sufficient  proof 
I could  have  revengefully  pursued  Orlick,  or  any  one  else,  to  the  last  extremity. 

Having  written  to  Joe,  to  offer  him  consolation,  and  to  assure  him  that  I would 
come  to  the  funeral,  I passed  the  intermediate  days  in  the  curious  state  of  mind  I 
have  glanced  at.  I went  down  early  in  the  morning,  and  alighted  at  the  Blue 
Boar,  in  goo  i time  to  walk  over  to  the  forge. 

It  was  tine  summer  weather  again,  and,  as  I walked  along,  the  times  when  I was 
a little  helpless  creature,  and  my  sister  did  not  spare  me,  vividly  returned.  But  they 
returned  with  a gentle  tone  upon  them,  that  softened  even  the  edge  of  Tickler. 
For  now,  the  very  breath  of  the  beans  and  clover  whispered  to  my  heart  that  the 
day  must  come  when  it  would  be  well  for  my  memory  that  others  walking  in  the 
sunshine  should  be  softened  as  they  thought  of  me. 

At  last  I came  within  sight  of  the  house,  and  saw  that  Trabb  and  Co.  had  put 
n a funereal  execution  and  taken  possession.  Two  dismally  absurd  persons,  each 
ostentatiously  exhibiting  a crutch  done  up  in  a black  bandage — as  if  that  instrument 
vould  possibly  communicate  any  comfort  to  anybody — were  posted  at  the  front 
-?oor  ; and  in  one  of  them  I recognised  a postboy  discharged  from  the  Boar  for 
turning  a young  couple  into  a sawpit  on  their  bridal  morning,  in  consequence  of 
Intoxication  rendering  it  necessary  for  him  to  ride  his  horse  clasped  round  the  neck 
with  both  arms.  All  the  children  of  the  village,  and  most  of  the  women,  were 
admiring  these  sable  warders  and  the  closed  windows  of  the  house  and  forge ; and 
as  I came  up,  one  of  the  two  warders  (the  postboy)  knocked  at  the  door — implying 
that  I was  far  too  much  exhausted  by  grief,  to  have  strength  remaining  to  knock 
for  myself. 

Another  sable  warder  (a  carpenter,  who  had  once  eaten  two  geese  for  a wager) 
opened  the  door,  and  showed  snt  into  the  best  parlour.  Here,  Mr.  Trabb  had 
taken  unto  himself  the  best  table,  and  had  got  all  the  leaves  up,  and  was  holding 
a kind  of  black  Bazaar,  with  the  aid  of  a quantity  of  black  pins.  At  the  moment 
of  my  arrival,  he  had  just  finished  putting  somebody’s  hat  into  black  long-clothes, 
like  an  African  baby  ; so  he  held  out  his  hand  for  mine.  But  I,  misled  by  the 
action,  and  confused  by  the  occasion,  shook  hands  with  him  with  every  testimony 
of  warm  affection. 

Poor  dear  Joe,  entangled  in  a little  black  cloak  tied  in  a large  bow  under  his 
chin,  was  seated  apart  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room  ; where,  as  chief  mourner,  he 
had  evidently  been  stationed  by  Trabb.  When  I bent  down  and  said  to  him, 
“ Dear  Joe,  how  are  you  ?”  he  said,  “ Pip,  old  chap,  you  know’d  her  when  she 
were  a fine  figure  of  a ” and  clasped  my  hand  and  said  no  more. 

Biddy,  looking  very  neat  and  modest  in  her  black  dress,  went  quietly  here  and 
there,  and  was  very  helpful.  When  I had  spoken  to  Biddy,  as  I thought  it  not  a 
time  for  talking,  I went  and  sat  down  near  Joe,  and  there  began  to  wonder  in  what 
part  of  the  house  it — she — my  sister — was.  The  air  of  the  parlour  being  faint  with 
the  smell  of  sweet  cake,  I looked  about  for  the  table  of  refreshments  ; it  was 
scarcely  visible  until  one  had  got  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  but  there  was  a cut-up 
plum-cake  upon  it,  and  there  were  cut-up  oranges,  and  sandwiches,  and  biscuits, 
and  two  decanters  that  I knew  very  well  as  ornaments,  but  had  never  seen  used 
in  all  my  life  : one  full  of  port,  and  one  of  sherry.  Standing  at  this  table,  I became 
conscious  of  the  servile  Pumblechook  in  a black  cloak  and  several  yards  of  hatband, 
who  was  alternately  stuffing  himself,  and  making  obsequious  movements  to  catch 
my  attention.  The  moment  he  succeeded,  he  came  over  to  me  (breathing  sherry 
and  crumbs),  and  said  in  a subdued  voice,  “ May  I,  dear  sir  ?”  and  did.  I then 
descried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubble  ; the  last-named  in  a decent  speechless  paroxysm  in 
a corner  We  were  all  going  to  “follow,”  and  were  all  in  course  of  being  tied  up 
separately  (by  Trabb)  into  ridiculous  bundles. 


Great  Expectations . 


3S6 


“Which  I meantersay,  Pip,”  Joe  whispered  me,  as  we  were  being  what  Mr, 
Trabb  called  “formed”  in  the  parlour,  two  and  two — and  it  was  dreadfully  like  a 
preparation  for  some  grim  kind  of  dance  ; “ which  I meantersay,  sir,  as  I would 
in  preference  have  carried  her  to  the  church  myself,  along  with  three  or  four 
friendly  ones  wot  come  to  it  with  willing  harts  and  arms,  but  it  were  considered 
wot  the  neighbours  would  look  down  on  such  and  would  be  of  opinions  as  it  were 
wanting  in  respect.” 

“ Pocket-handkerchiefs  out,  all !”  cried  Mr.  Trabb  at  this  point,  in  a depressed 
business-like  voice — “ Pocket-handkerchiefs  out ! We  are  ready!” 

So,  we  all  put  our  pocket-handkerchiefs  to  our  faces,  as  if  our  noses  were  bleed- 
ing, and  filed  out  two  and  two ; Joe  and  I ; Biddy  and  Pumblechook ; Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hubble.  The  remains  of  my  poor  sister  had  been  brought  round  by  the 
kitchen  door,  and,  it  being  a point  of  Undertaking  ceremony  that  the  six  bearers 
must  be  stifled  and  blinded  under  a horrible  black  velvet  housing  with  a white 
border,  the  whole  looked  like  a blind  monster  with  twelve  human  legs,  shuffling 
and  blundering  along  under  the  guidance  of  two  keepers — the  postboy  and  his 
comrade. 

The  neighbourhood,  however,  highly  approved  of  these  arrangements,  and  we 
were  much  admired  as  we  went  through  the  village  ; the  more  youthful  and  vigo- 
rous part  of  the  community  making  dashes  now  and  then  to  cut  us  off,  and  lying 
in  wait  to  intercept  us  at  points  of  vantage.  At  such  times  the  more  exuberant 
among  them  called  out  in  an  excited  manner  on  our  emergence  round  some  corner 
of  expectancy,  “ Here  they  come  !”  “ Here  they  are  !”  and  we  were  all  but  cheered. 
In  this  progress  I was  much  annoyed  by  the  abject  Pumblechook,  who,  being 
behind  me,  persisted  all  the  way,  as  a delicate  attention,  in  arranging  my  streaming 
hatband,  and  smoothing  my  cloak.  My  thoughts  were  further  distracted  by  the 
excessive  pride  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubble,  who  were  surpassingly  conceited  and 
vainglorious  in  being  members  of  so  distinguished  a procession. 

And  now  the  range  of  marshes  lay  clear  before  us,  with  the  sails  of  the  ships  on 
the  river  growing  out  of  it  ; and  we  went  into  the  churchyard,  close  to  the  graves 
of  my  unknown  parents,  Philip  Pirrip,  late  of  this  parish,  and  Also  Georgiana, 
Wife  of  the  Above.  And  there,  my  sister  was  laid  quietly  in  the  earth  while  the 
larks  sang  high  above  it,  and  the  light  wind  strewed  it  with  beautiful  shadows  of 
clouds  and  trees. 

Of  the  conduct  of  the  worldly-minded  Pumblechook  while  this  was  doing,  I desire 
to  say  no  more  than  it  was  all  addressed  to  me ; and  that  even  when  those  noble 
passages  were  read  which  reminded  humanity  how  it  brought  nothing  into  the 
world  and  can  take  nothing  out,  and  how  it  fleeth  like  a shadow  and  never  conti- 
nueth  long  in  one  stay,  I heard  him  cough  a reservation  of  the  case  of  a young 
gentleman  who  came  unexpectedly  into  large  property.  When  we  got  back,  he 
had  the  hardihood  to  tell  me  that  he  wished  my  sister  could  have  known  I had 
done  her  so  much  honour,  and  to  hint  that  she  would  have  considered  it  reasonably 
purchased  at  the  price  of  her  death.  After  that,  he  drank  all  the  rest  of  the  sherry, 
and  Mr.  Hubble  drank  the  port,  and  the  two  talked  (which  I have  since  observed 
to  be  cusiomary  in  such  cases)  as  if  they  were  of  quite  another  race  from  the 
deceased,  and  were  notoriously  immortal.  Finally,  he  went  away  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hubble — to  make  an  evening  of  it,  I felt  sure,  and  to  tell  the  Jolly  Bargemen 
that  he  was  the  founder  of  my  fortunes  and  my  earliest  benefactor. 

Wh  en  they  were  all  gone,  and  when  Trabb  and  his  men — but  not  his  boy : I 
looked  for  him — had  crammed  their  mummery  into  bags,  and  were  gone  too,  the 
house  felt  wholesomer.  Soon  afterwards,  Biddy,  Joe,  and  I,  had  a cold  dinner 
together  ; but  we  dined  in  the  best  parlour,  not  in  the  old  kitchen,  and  Joe  was  so 
exceedingly  particular  what  he  did  with  his  knife  and  fork  and  the  salt-cellar  and 


I take  Biddy  to  task. 


387 


what  not,  that  there  was  great  restraint  upon  us.  But  after  dinner,  when  I made 
him  take  his  pipe,  and  when  I had  loitered  with  him  about  the  forge,  and  when 
we  sat  down  together  on  the  great  block  of  stone  outside  it,  we  got  on  better.  I 
noticed  that  after  the  funeral  Joe  changed  his  clothes  so  far,  as  to  make  a com- 
promise between  his  Sunday  dress  and  working  dress : in  which  the  dear  fellow 
looked  natural,  and  like  the  Man  he  was. 

He  was  very  much  pleased  by  my  asking  if  I might  sleep  in  my  own  little 
room,  and  I was  pleased  too  ; for,  I felt  that  I had  done  rather  a great  thing  in 
making  the  request.  When  the  shadows  of  evening  were  closing  in,  I took  an 
opportunity  of  getting  into  the  garden  with  Biddy  for  a little  talk. 

“Biddy,”  said  I,  “I  think  you  might  have  written  to  me  about  these  sad 
matters.” 

“Do  you,  Mr.  Pip?”  said  Biddy.  “I  should  have  written  if  I had  thought 
that.” 

“ Don’t  suppose  that  I mean  to  be  unkind,  Biddy,  when  I say  I consider  that 
you  ought  to  have  thought  that.” 

“ Do  you,  Mr.  Pip  ?” 

She  was  so  quiet,  and  had  such  an  orderly,  good,  and  pretty  way  with  her,  that 
I did  not  like  the  thought  of  making  her  cry  again.  After  looking  a little  at  hei 
downcast  eyes  as  she  walked  beside  me,  I gave  up  that  point. 

“ I suppose  it  will  be  difficult  for  you  to  remain  here  now,  Biddy,  dear  ?” 

“ Oh ! I can’t  do  so,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  Biddy,  in  a tone  of  regret,  but  still  of  quiet 
conviction.  “ I have  been  speaking  to  Mrs.  Hubble,  and  I am  going  to  her  to- 
morrow. I hope  we  shall  be  able  to  take  some  care  of  Mr.  Gargery,  together, 
until  he  settles  down.” 

“ How  are  you  going  to  live,  Biddy  ? If  you  want  any  mo ” 

“ How  am  I going  to  live  ?”  repeated  Biddy,  striking  in,  with  a momentary  flush 
upon  her  face.  “ I’ll  tell  you,  Mr.  Pip.  I am  going  to  try  to  gee  the  place  of 
mistress  in  the  new  school  nearly  finished  here.  I can  be  well  rec  ommended  by 
all  the  neighbours,  and  I hope  I can  be  industrious  and  patient,  and  teach  myself 
while  I teach  others.  You  know,  Mr.  Pip,”  pursued  Biddy,  with  a smile,  as  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  my  face,  “ the  new  schools  are  not  like  the  old,  but  I learnt  a 
good  deal  from  you  after  that  time,  and  have  had  time  since  then  to  improve.” 

“ I think  you  would  always  improve,  Biddy,  under  any  circumstances.” 

“ Ah  ! Except  in  my  bad  side  of  human  nature,”  murmured  Biddy. 

It  was  not  so  much  a reproach,  as  an  irresistible  thinking  aloud.  "Well ! 1 
thought  I would  give  up  that  point  too.  So,  I walked  a little  further  with 
Biddy,  looking  silently  at  her  downcast  eyes. 

“ I have  not  heard  the  particulars  of  my  sister’s  death,  Biddy.” 

“ They  are  very  slight,  poor  thing.  She  had  been  in  one  of  her  bad  states — 
though  they  had  got  better  of  late,  rather  than  worse — for  four  days,  when  she 
came  out  of  it  in  the  evening,  just  at  tea-time,  and  said  quite  plainly,  ‘ Joe.’  As 
she  had  never  said  any  word  for  a long  while,  I ran  and  fetched  in  Mr.  Gargery 
from  the  forge.  She  made  signs  to  me  that  she  wanted  him  to  sit  down  close  to 
her,  and  wanted  me  to  put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  So  I put  them  zound  his 
neck,  and  she  laid  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder  quite  content  and  satisfied. 
And  so  she  presently  said  ‘ Joe  ’ again,  and  once  ‘ Pardon,’  and  once  4 Pip.’  And 
so  she  never  lifted  her  head  up  any  more,  and  it  was  just  an  hour  lata  when  we 
laid  it  down  on  her  own  bed,  because  we  found  she  was  gone.” 

Biddy  cried  ; the  darkening  garden,  and  the  lane,  and  the  stars  th*< 
loming  out,  were  blurred  in  my  own  sight. 

“ Nothing  was  ever  discovered,  Biddy  ?” 

'*  Nothing.” 


388 


Great  Expectations . 


“ Do  you  know  what  is  become  of  Orlick  ?” 

“ I should  think  from  the  colour  of  his  clothes  that  he  is  working  in  th« 
quarries.” 

“ Of  course  you  have  seen  him  then  ? — Why  are  you  looking  at  that  dark  tree 
in  the  lane  ?” 

“ I saw  him  there,  on  the  night  she  died.” 

“ That  was  not  the  last  time  either,  Biddy  ?” 

“ No ; I have  seen  him  there  since  we  have  been  walking  here. — It  is  of  no 
use,”  said  Biddy,  laying  her  hand  upon  my  arm,  as  I was  for  running  out,  “ you 
know  I would  not  deceive  you ; he  was  not  there  a minute,  and  he  is  gone.” 

It  revived  my  utmost  indignation  to  find  that  she  was  still  pursued  by  this 
fellow,  and  I felt  inveterate  against  him.  I told  her  so,  and  told  her  that  I would 
spend  any  money  or  take  any  pains  to  drive  him  out  of  that  sountry.  By  degrees 
she  led  me  into  more  temperate  talk,  and  she  told  me  how  Joe  loved  me,  and  how 
Toe  never  complained  of  anything — she  didn’t  say,  of  me ; she  had  no  need  ; I 
knew  what  she  meant — but  ever  did  his  duty  in  his  way  of  life,  with  a strong  hand, 
a quiet  tongue,  and  a gentle  heart. 

“ Indeed,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  too  much  for  him,”  said  I ; “ and,  Biddy,  we 
must  often  speak  of  these  things,  for  of  course  I shall  be  often  down  here  now.  I 
am  not  going  to  leave  poor  Joe  alone.” 

Biddy  said  never  a single  word. 

“ Biddy,  don’t  you  hear  me  ?” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Pip.” 

“Not  to  mention  your  calling  me  Mr.  Pip— which  appears  to  me  to  be  in  bad 
taste,  Biddy — what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ What  do  I mean  ?”  asked  Biddy,  timidly. 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  in  a virtuously  self-asserting  manner,  “I  must  request  to  know 
what  you  mean  by  this  ?” 

“ By  this  ?”  said  Biddy. 

••  Now,  don’t  echo,”  I retorted.  “ You  used  not  to  echo,  Biddy.” 

“ Used  not !”  said  Biddy.  “ O Mr.  Pip  ! Used  !” 

Well ! I rather  thought  I would  give  up  that  point  too.  After  another  silent 
turn  in  the  garden,  I fell  back  on  the  main  position. 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  “ I made  a remark  respecting  my  coming  down  here  often, 
to  see  Joe,  which  you  received  with  a marked  silence.  Have  the  goodness,  Biddy, 
to  tell  me  why.” 

“ Are  you  quite  sure,  then,  that  you  will  come  to  see  him  often  ?”  asked 
Biddy,  stopping  in  the  narrow  garden  walk,  and  looking  at  me  under  the  stars 
with  a clear  and  honest  eye. 

“ Oh  dear  me  !”  said  I,  as  I found  myself  compelled  to  give  up  Biddy  in  despair. 
“ This  really  is  a very  bad  side  of  human  nature  ! Don’t  say  any  more,  if  you 
please,  Biddy.  This  shocks  me  very  much.” 

For  which  cogent  reason  I kept  Biddy  at  a distance  during  supper,  and  when  I 
went  up  to  my  own  old  little  room,  took  as  stately  a leave  of  her  as  I could,  in 
my  murmuring  soul,  deem  reconcilable  with  the  churchyard  and  the  event  of  the 
day.  As  often  as  I was  restless  in  the  night,  and  that  was  every  quarter  of  an 
hour,  I reflected  what  an  unkindness,  what  an  injury,  what  an  injustice,  Biddy  had 
done  me. 

Early  in  the  morning,  I was  to  go.  Early  in  the  morning,  I was  out,  and 
looking  in,  unseen,  at  one  of  the  wooden  windows  of  the  forge.  There  I stood, 
for  minutes,  looking  at  Joe,  already  at  work  with  a glow  of  health  and  strength 
upon  his  face  that  made  it  show  as  if  the  bright  sun  of  the  life  in  store  for  hin? 
Were  shining  on  it. 


I have  a word  or  two  with  my  Guardian . 389 

“ Good-bye,  dear  Joe  ! — No,  don’t  wipe  it  off — for  God’s  sake,  give  me  yous 
blackened  hand  ! — I shall  be  down  soon  and  often.” 

“ Never  too  soon,  sir,”  said  Joe,  “ and  never  too  often,  Pip  1” 

Biddy  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  kitchen  door,  with  a mug  of  new  milk  and  a 
crust  of  bread.  “ Biddy,”  said  I,  when  I gave  her  my  hand  at  parting,  “ I am 
not  angry,  but  I am  hurt.” 

“No,  don’t  be  hurt,”  she  pleaded  quite  pathetically  ; “ let  only  me  be  hurt,  if 
I have  been  ungenerous.” 

Once  more,  the  mists  were  rising  as  I walked  away.  If  they  disclosed  to  me,  as 
I suspect  they  did,  that  I should  not  come  back,  and  that  Biddy  was  quite  right, 
all  I can  say  is — they  were  quite  right  too. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Herbert  and  I went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  in  the  way  of  increasing  our  debts, 
looking  into  our  affairs,  leaving  Margins,  and  the  like  exemplary  transactions  ; 
and  Time  went  on,  whether  or  no,  as  he  has  a way  of  doing ; and  I came  of 
age — in  fulfilment  of  Herbert’s  prediction,  that  I should  do  so  before  I knew 
where  I was. 

Herbert  himself  had  come  of  age,  eight  months  before  me.  As  he  had  nothing 
else  than  his  majority  to  come  into,  the  event  did  not  make  a profound  sensation 
in  Barnard’s  Inn.  But  we  had  looked  forward  to  my  one-and-twentieth  birthday, 
with  a crowd  of  speculations  and  anticipations,  for  we  had  both  considered  that 
my  guardian  could  hardly  help  saying  something  definite  on  that  occasion. 

I had  taken  care  to  have  it  well  understood  in  Little  Britain  when  my  birthday 
was.  On  the  day  before  it,  I received  an  official  note  from  Wemmick,  informing 
me  that  Mr.  Jaggers  would  be  glad  if  I would  call  upon  him  at  five  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  auspicious  day.  This  convinced  us  that  something  great  was  to 
happen,  and  threw  me  into  an  unusual  flutter  when  I repaired  to  my  guardian’s 
office,  a model  of  punctuality. 

In  the  outer  office  Wemmick  offered  me  his  congratulations,  and  incidentally 
rubbed  the  side  of  his  nose  with  a folded  piece  of  tissue-paper  that  I liked  the 
look  of.  But  he  said  nothing  respecting  it,  and  motioned  me  with  a nod  into  my 
guardian’s  room.  It  was  November,  and  my  guardian  was  standing  before  his 
fire  leaning  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  with  his  hands  under  his  coat- 
tails. 

“Well,  Pip,”  said  he,  “I  must  call  you  Mr.  Pip  to-day.  Congratulations, 
Mr.  Pip.” 

We  shook  hands — he  was  always  a remarkably  short  shaker — and  I thanked 
him. 

“Take  a chair,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  my  guardian. 

As  I sat  down,  and  he  preserved  his  attitude  and  bent  his  brows  at  his  boots, 
I felt  at  a disadvantage,  which  reminded  me  of  that  old  time  when  I had  been  put 
upon  a tombstone.  The  two  ghastly  casts  on  the  shelf  were  not  far  from  him,  and 
their  expression  was  as  if  they  were  making  a stupid  apoplectic  attempt  to  attend 
to  the  conversation. 

“Now,  my  young  friend,”  my  guardian  began,  as  if  I were  a witness  in  the 
box,  “ I am  going  to  have  a word  or  two  with  you.” 

“ If  you  please,  sir.” 

“ What  do  you  suppose,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  bending  forward  to  look  al  the 


390 


Great  Expectations . 


ground,  and  then  tin  owing  his  head  back  to  look  at  the  ceiling,  “ what  do  you 
suppose  you  are  living  at  the  rate  of  ?” 

“ At  the  rate  of,  sir  ?” 

“At,”  repeated  Mr.  Jaggers,  still  looking  at  the  ceiling,  “the — rate— of?* 
And  then  looked  all  round  the  room;  and  paused  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  in 
his  hand,  half  way  to  his  nose. 

I had  looked  into  my  affairs  so  often,  that  I had  thoroughly  destroyed  any 
slight  notion  I might  ever  have  had  of  their  bearings.  Reluctantly,  I confessed 
myself  quite  unable  to  answer  the  question.  This  reply  seemed  agreeable  to  Mr. 
Jaggers,  who  said,  “ I thought  so  !”  and  blew  his  nose  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

“ Now,  I have  asked  you  a question,  my  friend,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ Have  you 
anything  to  ask  me  ?” 

“ Of  course  it  would  be  a great  relief  to  me  to  ask  you  several  questions,  sir ; 
but  I remember  your  prohibition.” 

“Ask  one,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ Is  my  benefactor  to  be  made  known  to  me  to-day  ?” 

“No.  Ask  another.” 

“ Is  that  confidence  to  be  imparted  to  me  soon  ?” 

“Waive  that,  a moment,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ and  ask  another.” 

I looked  about  me,  but  there  appeared  to  be  now  no  possible  escape  from  the 
inquiry,  “ Have — I — anything  to  receive,  sir  ?”  On  that,  Mr.  Jaggers  said, 
triumphantly,  “I  thought  we  should  come  to  it!”  and  called  to  Wemmick  to 
give  him  that  piece  of  paper.  Wemmick  appeared,  handed  it  in,  and  disappeared. 

“Now,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “attend  if  you  please.  You  have  been 
drawing  pretty  freely  here ; your  name  occurs  pretty  often  in  Wemmick’s  cash- 
book : but  you  are  in  debt,  of  course  ?” 

“ I am  afraid  I must  say  yes,  sir.” 

“You  know  you  must  say  yes  ; don’t  you  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ I don’t  ask  you  what  you  owe,  because  you  don’t  know  ; and  if  you  did  know, 

5ou  wouldn’t  tell  me ; you  would  say  less.  Yes,  yes,  my  friend,”  cried  Mr. 
aggers,  waving  his  forefinger  to  stop  me,  as  I made  a show  of  protesting  : “ it's 


likely  enough  that  you  think  you  wouldn’t,  but  you  would.  You’ll  excuse  me,  but 
I know  better  than  you.  Now,  take  this  piece  of  paper  in  your  hand.  You  have 
got  it  ? Very  good.  Now,  unfold  it  and  tell  me  what  it  is.” 

“ This  is  a bank-note,”  said  I,  “ for  five  hundred  pounds.” 

“ That  is  a bank-note,”  repeated  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ for  five  hundred  pounds.  And 
a very  handsome  sum  of  money  too,  I think.  You  consider  it  so  ?” 

“ How  could  I do  otherwise  !” 

“ Ah  ! But  answer  the  question,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“You  consider  it,  undoubtedly,  a handsome  sum  of  money.  Now,  that  hand- 
some sum  of  money,  Pip,  is  your  own.  It  is  a present  to  you  on  this  day,  in 
earnest  of  your  expectations.  And  at  the  rate  of  that  handsome  sum  of  money 
per  annum,  and  at  no  higher  rate,  you  are  to  live  until  the  donor  of  the  whole 
appears.  That  is  to  say,  you  will  now  take  your  money  affairs  entirely  into  your 
own  hands,  and  you  will  draw  from  Wemmick  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds  per  quarter,  until  you  are  in  communication  with  the  fountain-head,  and 
no  longer  with  the  mere  agent.  As  I have  told  you  before,  I am  the  mere  agent. 
I execute  my  instructions,  and  I am  paid  for  doing  so.  I think  them  injudicious, 
but  I am  not  paid  for  giving  any  opinion  on  their  merits.” 

I was  beginning  to  express  my  gratitude  to  my  benefactor  for  the  great  liberality 
with  which  1 was  treated,  when  Mr.  Jaggers  stopped  me.  “ I am  not  paid,  Pip,’* 


My  question  remains  unanswered. 


39i 


&aid  he,  coolly,  “ to  carry  your  words  to  any  one  and  then  gathered  up  his  coat- 
tails, as  he  had  gathered  up  the  subject,  and  stood  frowning  at  his  boots  as  if  he 
suspected  them  of  designs  against  him. 

After  a pause,  I hinted  : 

“ There  was  a question  just  now,  Mr.  Jaggers,  which  you  desired  me  to  waive 
for  a moment.  I hope  I am  doing  nothing  wrong  in  asking  it  again  ?” 

“ What  is  it  ?”  said  he. 

I might  have  known  that  he  would  never  help  me  out ; but  it  took  me  aback  to 
have  to  shape  the  question  afresh,  as  if  it  were  quite  new.  “ Is  it  likely,”  I said, 
after  hesitating,  “ that  my  patron,  the  fountain-head  you  have  spoken  of,  Mr. 
Jaggers,  will  soon ” there  I delicately  stopped. 

“ Will  soon  what  ?”  asked  Mr.  Jaggers.  “ That’s  no  question  as  it  stands,  you 
know.” 

“ Will  soon  come  to  London,”  said  I,  after  casting  about  for  a precise  form  of 
words,  “01  summon  me  anywhere  else  ?” 

“Now  here,”  replied  Mr.  Jaggers,  fixing  me  for  the  first  time  with  his  dark 
deep-set  eyes,  “we  must  revert  to  the  evening  when  we  first  encountered  one 
another  in  your  village.  What  did  I tell  you  then,  Pip  ?” 

“You  told  me,  Mr.  Jaggers,  that  it  might  be  years  hence  when  that  person 
appeared.” 

“Just  so,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers  ; “ that’s  my  answer.” 

As  we  looked  full  at  one  another,  I felt  my  breath  come  quicker  in  my  strong 
desire  to  get  something  out  of  him.  And  as  I felt  that  it  came  quicker,  and  as  I 
felt  that  he  saw  that  it  came  quicker,  I felt  that  I had  less  chance  than  ever  of 
getting  anything  out  of  him. 

“Do  you  suppose  it  will  still  be  years  hence,  Mr.  Jaggers  ?” 

Mr.  Jaggers  shook  his  head — not  in  negativing  the  question,  but  in  altogether 
negativing  the  notion  that  he  could  anyhow  be  got  to  answer  it — and  the  two 
horrible  casts  of  the  twitched  faces  looked,  when  my  eyes  strayed  up  to  them,  as  if 
they  had  come  to  a crisis  in  their  suspended  attention,  and  were  going  to  sneeze. 

“ Come  !”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  warming  the  backs  of  his  legs  with  the  backs  of 
his  warmed  hands,  “ I’ll  be  plain  with  you,  my  friend  Pip.  That’s  a question  I 
must  not  be  asked.  You’ll  understand  that,  better,  when  I tell  you  it’s  a question 
that  might  compromise  me.  Come  ! I’ll  go  a little  further  with  you  ; I’ll  say 
something  more.” 

He  bent  down  so  low  to  frown  at  his  boots,  that  he  was  able  to  rub  the  calves 
of  his  legs  in  the  pause  he  made. 

“ When  that  person  discloses,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  straightening  himself,  “ you 
and  that  person  will  settle  your  own  affairs.  When  that  person  discloses,  my 
part  in  this  business  will  cease  and  determine.  When  that  person  discloses,  it 
will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  know  anything  about  it.  And  that’s  all  I have 
got  to  say.” 

We  looked  at  one  another  until  I withdrew  my  eyes,  and  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  floor.  From  this  last  speech  I derived  the  notion  that  Miss  Havisham, 
for  some  reason  or  no  reason,  had  not  taken  him  into  her  confidence  as  to  her 
designing  me  for  Estella ; that  he  resented  this,  and  felt  a jealousy  about  it ; 01 
that  he  really  did  object  to  that  scheme,  and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
When  I raised  my  eyes  again,  I found  that  he  had  been  shrewdly  looking  at  me 
all  the  time,  and  was  doing  so  still. 

“ If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say,  sir,”  I remarked,  “ there  can  be  nothing  left  for 
me  to  say.” 

He  nodded  assent,  and  pulled  out  his  thief-dreaded  watch,  and  asked  me  where 
L was  going  to  dine  ? I replied  at  my  Dwn  chamt/ets*,  with  Herbert.  As  a nec.es- 


39* 


Great  Expectations. 


sary  sequence,  I asked  him  if  he  would  favour  us  with  his  company,  and  ha 
promptly  accepted  the  invitation.  But  he  insisted  on  walking  home  with  me,  in 
order  that  I might  make  no  extra  preparation  for  him,  and  first  he  had  a letter  or 
two  to  write,  and  (of  course)  had  his  hands  to  wash.  So,  I said  I would  go  into 
the  outer  office  and  talk  to  Wemmick. 

The  fact  was,  that  when  the  five  hundred  pounds  had  come  into  my  pocket,  " 
thought  had  come  into  my  head  which  had  been  often  there  before  ; and  it  ap 
peared  to  me  that  Wemmick  was  a good  person  to  advise  with,  concerning  such 
thought. 

He  had  already  locked  up  his  safe,  and  made  preparations  for  going  home.  He 
had  left  his  desk,  brought  out  bis  two  greasy  office  candlesticks  and  stood  them  in 
line  with  the  snuffers  on  a slab  near  the  door,  ready  to  be  extinguished  ; he  had 
raked  his  fire  low,  put  his  hat  and  great-coat  ready,  and  was  beating  himself  all 
over  the  chest  with  his  safe-key  as  an  athletic  exercise  after  business. 

“ Mr.  Wemmick,”  said  I,  “I  want  to  ask  your  opinion.  I am  very  desirous  to 
serve  a friend.” 

Wemmick  tightened  his  post-office  and  shook  his  head,  as  if  his  opinion  were 
dead  against  any  fatal  weakness  of  that  sort. 

“This  friend,”  I pursued,  “is  trying  to  get  on  in  commercial  life,  but  has  no 
money,  and  finds  it  difficult  and  disheartening  to  make  a beginning.  Now,  I 
want  somehow  to  help  him  to  a beginning.” 

“ With  money  down  ? ” said  Wemmick,  in  a tone  drier  than  any  sawdust. 
“With  some  money  down,”  I replied,  for  an  uneasy  remembrance  shot  across 
me  of  that  symmetrical  bundle  of  papers  at  home;  “with  some  money  down, 
and  perhaps  some  anticipation  of  my  expectations.” 

“ Mr.  Pip,”  said  Wemmick,  “ I should  like  just  to  run  over  with  you  on  my 
fingers,  if  you  please,  the  names  of  the  various  bridges  up  as  high  as  Chelsea 
Reach.  Let’s  see  ; there’s  London,  one ; Southwark,  two  ; Blackfriars,  three ; 
Waterloo,  four;  Westminster,  five;  Vauxhall,  six.”  He  had  checked  off  each 
bridge  in  its  turn,  with  the  handle  of  his  safe-key  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
“ There’s  as  many  as  six,  you  see,  to  choose  from.” 

“ I don’t  understand  you,”  said  I. 

“ Choose  your  bridge,  Mr.  Pip,”  returned  Wemmick,  “and  take  a walk  upon 
your  bridge,  and  pitch  your  money  into  the  Thames  over  the  centre  arch  of  your 
bridge,  and  you  know  the  end  of  it.  Serve  a friend  with  it,  and  you  may  know 
the  end  of  it  too — but  it’s  a less  pleasant  and  profitable  end.” 

I could  have  posted  a newspaper  in  his  mouth,  he  made  it  so  wide  after  saying 
this. 

“ This  is  very  discouraging,”  said  I. 

“ Meant  to  be  so,”  said  Wemmick. 

“Then  is  it  your  opinion,”  I inquired,  with  some  little  indignation,  “that  a 

man  should  never ” 

“ — Invest  portable  property  in  a friend?”  said  Wemmick.  “ Certainly  he 
should  not.  Unless  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  the  friend — and  then  it  becomes  a 
question  how  much  portable  property  it  may  be  worth  to  get  rid  of  him.” 

“ And  that,”  said  I,  “ is  your  deliberate  opinion,  Mr.  Wemmick  ? ” 

“That,”  he  returned,  “is  my  deliberate  opinion  in  this  office.” 

“Ah  !”  said  I,  pressing  him,  for  I thought  I saw  him  near  a loophole  here; 
“ but  would  that  be  your  opinion  at  Walworth  ?” 

“Mr.  Pip,”  he  replied  with  gravity,  “ Walworth  is  one  place,  and  this  office  is 
another.  Much  as  the  Aged  is  one  person,  and  Mr.  Jaggers  is  another.  They 
must  not  be  confounded  together.  My  Walworth  sentiments  must  be  taken  at 
Walworth  j none  but  my  official  sentiments  can  be  taken  in  this  office.” 


Another  Pilgrimage  to  the  Ca:tle. 


393 


u Very  well,”  said  I,  much  relieved,  “then  I shall  look  you  up  at  Walworth, 
you  may  depend  upon  it.” 

“Mr.  Pip,”  he  returned,  “you  will  be  welcome  there,  in  a private  and  personal 
capacity.” 

We  had  held  this  conversation  in  a low  voice,  well  knowing  my  guardian’s  ears 
to  be  the  sharpest  of  the  sharp.  As  he  now  appeared  in  his  doorway,  tow,  lling 
his  hands,  Wemmick  got  on  his  great-coat  and  stood  by  to  snuff  out  the  candles. 
We  all  three  went  into  the  street  together,  and  from  the  door-step  Wemmick 
turned  his  way,  and  Mr.  Jaggers  and  I turned  ours. 

I could  not  help  wishing  more  than  once  that  evening,  that  Mr.  Jaggers  had 
had  an  Aged  in  Gerrard-street,  or  a Stinger,  or  a Something,  or  a Somebody,  to 
unbend  his  brows  a little.  It  was  an  uncomfortable  consideration  on  a twenty- 
first  birthday,  that  coming  of  age  at  all  seemed  hardly  worth  while  in  such  a 
guarded  and  suspicious  world  as  he  made  of  it.  He  was  a thousand  times  better 
informed  and  cleverer  than  Wemmick,  and  yet  I would  a thousand  times  rather 
have  had  Wemmick  to  dinner.  And  Mr.  Jaggers  made  not  me  alone  intensely 
melancholy,  because,  after  he  was  gone,  Herbert  said  of  himself,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire,  that  he  thought  he  must  have  committed  a felony  and  forgotten 
the  details  of  it,  he  felt  so  dejected  and  guilty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Deeming  Sunday  the  best  day  for  taking  Mr.  Wemmick’s  Walworth  sentiments, 
I devoted  the  next  ensuing  Sunday  afternoon  to  a pilgrimage  to  the  Castle.  On 
arriving  before  the  battlements,  I found  the  Union  Jack  Hying  and  the  drawbridge 
up,  but  undeterred  by  this  show  of  defiance  and  resistance,  I rang  at  the  gate, 
and  was  admitted  in  a most  pacific  manner  by  the  Aged. 

“ My  son,  sir,”  said  the  old  man,  after  securing  the  drawbridge,  “rather  had 
it  in  his  mind  that  you  might  happen  to  drop  in,  and  he  left  word  that  he  would 
soon  be  home  from  his  afternoon’s  walk.  He  is  very  regular  in  his  walks,  is  mj 
son.  Very  regular  in  everything,  is  my  son.” 

I nodded  at  the  old  gentleman  as  Wemmick  himself  might  have  nodded*  and 
we  went  in  and  sat  down  by  the  fireside. 

“ You  made  acquaintance  with  my  son,  sir,”  said  the  old  man,  in  his  ohirping 
way,  while  he  warmed  his  hands  at  the  blaze,  “ at  his  office,  I expect  ? ” I nodded. 
“ Hah  ! I have  heerd  that  my  son  is  a wonderful  hand  at  his  business,  sir  ? ” I 
nodded  hard.  “Yes  ; so  they  tell  me.  His  business  is  the  Law  ? ” I nodded 
harder.  “Which  makes  it  more  surprising  in  my  son,”  said  the  old  man,  “ foi 
he  was  not  brought  up  to  the  Law,  but  to  the  Wine-Coopering.” 

Curious  to  know  how  the  old  gentleman  stood  informed  concerning  the  reputa- 
tion of  Mr.  Jaggers,  I roared  that  name  at  him.  He  threw  me  into  the  greatest 
confusion  by  laughing  heartily  and  replying  in  a very  sprightly  manner,  “ No,  to 
be  sure ; you’re  right.”  And  to  this  hour  I have  not  the  faintest  notion  of  what 
he  meant,  or  what  joke  he  thought  I had  made. 

As  I could  not  sit  there  nodding  at  him  perpetually,  without  making  some 
other  attempt  to  interest  him,  I shouted  an  inquiry  whether  his  own  calling  in  life 
had  been  “ the  Wine-Coopering.”  By  dint  of  straining  that  term  out  of  myself 
several  times  and  tapping  the  old  gentleman  on  the  chest  to  associate  it  with  him, 
I at  last  succeeded  in  making  my  meaning  understood. 

“No/  said  the  old  gentleman;  “the  warehousing,  the  warehousing.  First, 


394 


Great  Expectations. 


over  yonder  ; ” he  appeared  to  mean  up  the  chimney,  but  I believe  he  intended  td 
refer  me  to  Liverpool ; “ and  then  in  the  City  of  London  here.  Howeve~,  having 
an  infirmity — for  I am  hard  of  hearing,  sir ” 

I expressed  in  pantomime  the  greatest  astonishment. 

“ — Yes,  hard  of  hearing ; having  that  infirmity  coming  upon  me,  my  son  he 
went  into  the  Law,  and  he  took  charge  of  me,  and  he  by  little  and  little  made  out 
this  elegant  and  beautiful  property.  But  returning  to  what  you  said,  you  know,” 
pursued  the  old  man,  again  laughing  heartily,  “ what  I say  is,  No,  to  be  sure ; 
you’re  right.” 

I was  modestly  wondering  whether  my  utmost  ingenuity  would  have  enabled 
me  to  say  anything  that  would  have  amused  him  half  as  much  as  this  imaginary 
pleasantry,  when  i was  startled  by  a sudden  click  in  the  wall  on  one  side  of  the 
chimney,  and  the  ghostly  tumbling  open  of  a little  wooden  flap  with  “John  ” 
upon  it.  The  old  man,  following  my  eyes,  cried  with  great  triumph,  “ My  son ’s 
come  home ! ” and  we  both  went  out  to  the  drawbridge. 

It  was  worth  any  money  to  see  Wemmick  waving  a salute  to  me  from  the  other 
side  of  the  moat,  when  we  might  have  shaken  hands  across  it  with  the  greatest 
ease.  The  Aged  was  so  delighted  to  work  the  drawbridge,  that  I made  no  offer 
to  assist  him,  but  stood  quiet  until  Wemmick  had  come  across,  and  had  presented 
me  to  Miss  Skiffins  : a lady  by  whom  he  was  accompanied. 

Miss  Skiffins  was  of  a wooden  appearance,  and  was,  like  her  escort,  in  the 
post  office  branch  of  the  service.  She  might  have  been  some  two  or  three  years 
younger  than  Wemmick,  and  I judged  her  to  stand  possessed  of  portable  property. 
The  cut  of  her  dress  from  the  waist  upward,  both  before  and  behind,  made  her 
figure  very  like  a boy’s  kite  ; and  I might  h we  pronounced  her  gown  a little  too 
decidedly  orange,  and  her  gloves  a little  too  intensely  green.  But  she  seemed  to 
be  a good  sort  of  fellow,  and  showed  a high  regard  for  the  Aged.  I was  not 
long  in  discovering  that  she  was  a frequent  visitor  at  the  Castle ; for,  on  our  going 
in,  and  my  complimenting  Wemmick  on  his  ingenious  contrivance  for  announcing 
himself  to  the  Aged,  he  begged  me  to  give  my  attention  for  a moment  to  the 
other  side  of  the  chimney,  and  disappeared.  Presently  another  click  came,  and 
another  little  door  tumbled  open  with  “Miss  Skiffins”  on  it;  then  Miss  Skiffins 
shut  up  and  John  tumbled  open ; then  Miss  Skiffins  and  John  both  tumbled 
open  together,  and  finally  shut  up  together.  On  WemmHBs  return  from 
working  these  mechanical  appliances,  I expressed  the  greac  admiration  with 
which  I regarded  them,  and  he  said,  “Well,  you  know,  they’re  both  pleasant 
and  useful  to  the  Aged.  And  by  George,  sir,  it’s  a thing  worth  mentioning, 
that  of  all  the  people  who  come  to  this  gate,  the  secret  of  those  pulls  is  only 
known  to  the  Aged,  Miss  Skiffins,  and  me  ! ” 

“ And  Mr.  Wemmick  made  them,”  added  Miss  Skiffins,  “ with  his  own  hands 
out  of  his  own  head.” 

While  Miss  Skiffins  was  taking  off  her  bonnet  (she  retained  her  green  gloves 
during  the  evening  as  an  outward  and  visible  sign  that  there  was  company), 
Wemmick  invited  me  to  take  a walk  with  him  round  the  property,  and  see  how 
the  island  looked  in  winter-time.  Thinking  that  he  did  this  to  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  taking  his  Walworth  sentiments,  I seized  the  opportunity  as  soon  as  we 
were  out  of  the  Castle. 

Having  thought  of  the  matter  with  care,  I approached  my  subject  as  if  I had 
nevtr  hinted  at  it  before.  I informed  Wemmick  that  I was  anxious  in  behalf  of 
Herbert  Pocket,  and  I told  him  how  we  had  first  met,  and  how  we  had  fought. 
I glanced  at  Herbert’s  home,  and  at  his  character,  and  at  h s having  no  means 
hut  such  as  he  was  dependent  on  his  father  for : those,  uncertain  and  unpunctual. 
I alluded  to  the  advantages  I had  derived  in  my  first  rawness  and  ignorance  from 


395 


1 take  Wemmich  into  coyifidence. 

his  society,  and  I confessed  that  I feared  I had  but  ill  repaid  them,  ard  that  he 
might  have  done  better  without  me  and  my  expectations.  Keeping  Miss  Havis- 
ham  in  the  background  at  a great  distance,  I still  bin  ed  at  the  possibility  of  my 
having  competed  with  him  in  his  prospects,  and  at  the  certainty  of  his  possessing 
a generous  soul,  and  being  far  above  any  mean  distrusts,  retaliations,  or  designs 
For  all  these  reasons  (I  told  Wemmick),  and  because  he  was  my  young  com 
panion  and  friend,  and  I had  a great  affection  for  him,  I wished  my  own  good 
fortune  to  reflect  some  rays  upon  him,  and  therefore  I sought  advice  from 
Wemmick’s  experience  and  knowledge  of  men  and  affairs,  how  I could  best  try 
with  my  resources  to  help  Herbert  to  some  present  income — say  of  a hundred  a 
year,  to  keep  him  in  good  hope  and  heart — and  gradually  to  buy  him  on  to  some 
small  partnership.  I begged  Wemmick,  in  conclusion,  to  understand  that  my 
help  must  always  be  rendered  without  Herbert’s  knowledge  or  suspicion,  and 
that  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  with  whom  I could  advise.  I wound  up 
by  laying  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  saying  “ I can’t  help  confiding  in  you  ; 
though  I know  it  must  be  troublesome  to  you  ; but  that  is  your  fault ; in  having 
ever  brought  me  here.” 

Wemmick  was  silent  for  a little  while,  and  then  said  with  a kind  of  start, 
“Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Pip,  I must  tell  you  one  thing.  This  is  devilish  good  o/ 
you.” 

“ Say  you’ll  help  me  to  be  good  then,”  said  I. 

“Ecod,”  replied  Wemmick,  shaking  his  head,  “ that’s  not  my  trade.” 

“Nor  is  this  your  trading-place,”  said  I. 

“You  are  right,”  he  returned.  “ You  hit  the  nail  on  the  head.  Mr.  Pip,  I’ll 
put  on  my  considering  cap,  and  I think  all  you  want  to  do  may  be  done  by  degrees. 
Skifhns  (that’s  her  brother)  is  an  accountant  and  agent.  I’ll  look  him  up  and  go 
to  work  for  you.” 

“ I thank  you  ten  thousand  times.” 

“ On  the  contrary,”  said  he,  “I  thank  you,  for  though  we  are  strictly  in  our 
private  and  personal  capacity,  still  it  may  be  mentioned  that  there  are  Newgate 
cobwebs  about,  and  it  brushes  them  away.” 

After  a little  further  conversation  to  the  same  effect,  we  returned  into  the 
Castle  where  we  found  Miss  Skifhns  preparing  tea.  The  responsible  duty  ol 
making  the  toast  was  delegated  to  the  Aged,  and  that  excellent  old  gentleman  was 
so  intent  upon  it  that  he  seemed  to  be  in  some  danger  of  melting  his  eyes.  It  was 
no  nominal  meal  that  we  were  going  to  make,  but  a vigorous  reality.  The  Aged 
prepared  such  a haystack  of  buttered  toast,  that  I could  scarcely  see  him  over  it 
as  it  simmered  on  an  iron  stand  hooked  on  to  the  top-bar ; while  Miss  Skifhns 
brewed  such  a jorum  of  tea,  that  the  pig  in  the  back  premises  became  strongly 
excited,  and  repeatedly  expressed  his  desire  to  participate  in  the  entertainment. 

The  flag  had  been,  struck,  and  the  gun  had  been  fired,  at  the  right  moment  of 
time,  and  I felt  as  snugly  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  Walworth  as  if  the  moat  were 
thirty  feet  wide  by  as  many  deep.  Nothing  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  the  Castle, 
but  the  occasional  tumbling  open  of  John  and  Miss  Skifhns  : which  little  doors 
were  a prey  to  some  spasmodic  infirmity  that  made  me  sympathetically  uncomfort- 
able until  I got  used  to  it.  I inferred  from  the  methodical  nature  of  Miss  Skifhns’s 
arrangements  that  she  made  tea  there  every  Sunday  night ; and  I rather  sus- 
pected that  a classic  brooch  she  wore,  representing  the  profile  of  an  undesirable 
female  with  a very  straight  nose  and  a very  new  moon,  was  a piece  of  portable 
property  that  had  been  given  her  by  Wemmick. 

We  ate  the  whole  of  the  toast,  and  drank  tea  in  proportion,  and  it  was  delight- 
ful to  see  how  warm  and  greasy  we  all  got  after  it.  The  Aged  especially,  might 
have  passed  for  some  clean  old  chief  of  a savage  tribe,  just  oiled.  After  a short 


Great  Expectations . 


396 


pause  of  repose,  Miss  Skiffins — in  the  absence  of  the  little  servant,  who,  it  seemed, 
retired  to  the  bosom  of  her  family  on  Sunday  afternoons  —washed  up  the  tea-things, 
in  a trifling  lady-like  amateur  manner  that  compromised  none  of  us.  Then,  she 
put  on  her  gloves  again,  and  we  drew  round  the  fire,  and  Wemmick  said,  “ Now, 
Aged  Parent,  tip  us  the  paper.” 

Wemmick  explained  to  me  while  the  Aged  got  his  spectacles  out,  that  this  was 
according  to  custom,  and  that  it  gave  the  old  gentleman  infinite  satisfaction  to  read 
the  news  aloud.  “ I won’t  offer  an  apology,”  said  Wemmick,  “ for  he  isn’t  capable 
of  many  pleasures — are  you  Aged  P.  ?” 

“All  right,  John,  all  right,”  returned  the  old  man,  seeing  himself  spoken  to. 

“ Only  tip  him  a nod  every  now  and  then  when  he  looks  off  his  paper,”  said 
Wemmick,  “ and  he’ll  be  as  happy  as  a king.  We  are  all  attention,  Aged  One.” 

“ All  right,  John,  all  right !”  returned  the  cheerful  old  man : so  busy  and  so 
pleased,  that  it  really  was  quite  charming. 

The  Aged’s  reading  reminded  me  of  the  classes  at  Mr.  Wopsle’s  great-aunt’s, 
with  the  pleasanter  peculiarity  that  it  seemed  to  come  through  a keyhole.  As  he 
wanted  the  candles  close  to  him,  and  as  he  was  always  on  the  verge  of  putting 
either  his  head  or  the  newspaper  into  them,  he  required  as  much  watching  as  a 
powder-mill.  But  Wemmick  was  equally  untiring  and  gentle  in  his  vigilance,  and 
the  Aged  read  on,  quite  unconscious  of  his  many  rescues.  Whenever  he  looked 
at  us,  we  all  expressed  the  greatest  interest  and  amazement,  and  nodded  until  he 
resumed  again. 

As  Wemmick  and  Miss  Skiffins  sat  side  by  side,  and  as  I sat  in  a shadowy 
comer,  I observed  a slow  and  gradual  elongation  of  Mr.  Wemmick’s  mouth, 
powerfully  suggestive  of  his  slowly  and  gradually  stealing  his  arm  round  Miss 
Skiffins’s  waist.  In  course  of  time  I saw  his  hand  appear  on  the  other  side  of 
Miss  Skiffins ; but  at  that  moment  Miss  Skiffins  neatly  stopped  him  with  the  green 
glove,  unwound  his  arm  again  as  if  it  were  an  article  of  dress,  and  with  the 
greatest  deliberation  laid  it  on  the  table  before  her.  Miss  Skiffins’s  composure 
while  she  did  this  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  sights  I have  ever  seen,  and  if 
I could  have  thought  the  act  consistent  with  abstraction  of  mind,  I should  have 
deemed  that  Miss  Skiffins  performed  it  mechanically. 

By-and-by,  I noticed  Wemmick’s  arm  beginning  to  disappear  again,  and  gradu- 
ally fading  out  of  view.  Shortly  afterwards,  his  mouth  began  to  widen  again. 
After  an  interval  of  suspense  on  my  part  that  was  quite  enthralling  and  almost 
painful,  I saw  his  hand  appear  on  the  other  side  of  Miss  Skiffins.  Instantly,  Miss 
Skiffins  stopped  it  with  the  neatness  of  a placid  boxer,  took  off  that  girdle  or 
cestus  as  before,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Taking  the  table  to  represent  the  path 
of  virtue,  I am  justified  in  stating  that  during  the  whole  time  of  the  Aged’s  read- 
ing, Wemmick’s  arm  was  straying  from  the  path  of  virtue  and  being  recalled  to  it 
by  Miss  Skiffins. 

At  last  the  Aged  read  himself  into  a light  slumber.  This  was  the  time  for 
Wemmick  to  produce  a little  kettle,  a tray  of  glasses,  and  a black  bottle  with  a 
porcelain-topped  cork,  representing  some  clerical  dignitary  of  a rubicund  and  social 
aspect.  With  the  aid  of  these  appliances  we  all  had  something  warm  to  drink  * 
including  the  Aged,  who  was  soon  awake  again.  Miss  Skiffins  mixed,  and  I ob- 
served that  she  and  Wemmick  drank  out  of  one  glass.  Of  course  I knew  better 
than  to  offer  to  see  Miss  Skiffins  home,  and  under  the  circumstances  I thought  I 
had  best  go  first : which  I did,  taking  a cordial  leave  of  the  Aged,  and  having 
passed  a pleasant  evening. 

Before  a week  was  out,  I received  a note  from  Wemmick,  dated  Walworth, 
stating  that  he  hoped  he  had  made  some  advance  in  that  matter  appertaining 
to  our  private  and  personal  capacities,  and  that  he  would  be  glad  if  I could  come 


1 befriend  Herbert  without  his  knowing  it . 


397 


and  see  him  again  upon  it.  So,  I went  out  to  Walworth  again,  and  yet  again,  and 
yet  again,  and  I saw  him  by  appointment  in  the  City  several  times,  but  never  held 
any  comir unication  with  him  on  the  subject  in  or  near  Little  Britain.  The  upshot 
was,  that  we  found  a worthy  young  merchant  or  shipping-broker,  not  long  estab- 
lished in  business,  who  wanted  intelligent  help,  and  who  wanted  capital,  and  who 
in  due  course  of  time  and  receipt  would  want  a partner.  Between  him  and  me, 
secret  articles  were  signed  of  which  Herbert  was  the  subject,  and  I paid  him  half 
of  my  five  hundred  pounds  down,  and  engaged  for  sundry  other  payments  : some, 
to  fall  due  at  certain  dates  out  of  my  income  : some  contingent  on  my  coming  into 
my  property.  Miss  Skiffins’s  brother  conducted  the  negotiation.  Wemmick  per- 
vaded it  throughout,  but  never  appeared  in  it. 

The  whole  business  was  so  cleverly  managed,  that  Herbert  had  not  the  least 
suspicion  of  my  hand  being  in  it.  I never  shall  forget  the  radiant  face  with  which 
he  came  home  one  afternoon,  and  told  me  as  a mighty  piece  of  news,  of  his  having 
fallen  in  with  one  Clarriker  (the  young  merchant’s  name),  and  of  Clarriker’s 
having  shown  an  extraordinary  inclination  towards  him,  and  of  his  belief  that  the 
opening  had  come  at  last.  Day  by  day  as  his  hopes  grew  stronger  and  his  face 
brighter,  he  must  have  thought  me  a more  and  more  affectionate  friend,  for  I had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  restraining  my  tears  of  triumph  when  I saw  him  so  happy. 

At  length,  the  thing  being  done,  and  he  having  that  day  entered  Clarriker’s 
House,  and  he  having  talked  to  me  for  a whole  evening  in  a flush  of  pleasure  and 
success,  I did  really  cry  in  good  earnest  when  I went  to  bed,  to  think  that  my 
expectations  had  done  some  good  to  somebody. 

A great  event  in  my  life,  the  turning  point  of  my  life,  now  opens  on  my  view. 
But,  before  I proceed  to  narrate  it,  and*  before  I pass  on  to  all  the  changes  it  in- 
volved, I must  give  one  chapter  to  Estella.  It  is  not  much  to  give  to  the  themp 
that  so  long  filled  my  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

If  that  staid  old  house  near  the  Green  at  Richmond  should  ever  come  to  be 
haunted  when  I am  dead,  it  will  be  haunted,  surely,  by  my  ghost.  O the  many, 
many  nights  and  days  through  which  the  unquiet  spirit  within  me  haunted  that 
house  when  Estella  lived  there  ! Let  my  body  be  where  it  would,  my  spirit  was 
always  wandering,  wandering,  wandering  about  that  house. 

The  lady  with  whom  Estella  was  placed,  Mrs.  Brandley  by  name,  was  a widow, 
with  one  daughter  several  years  older  than  Estella.  The  mother  looked  young 
and  the  daughter  looked  old ; the  mother’s  complexion  was  pink,  and  the  daughter’s 
was  yellow ; the  mother  set  up  for  frivolity,  and  the  daughter  for  theology.  They 
were  in  what  is  called  a good  position,  and  visited,  and  were  visited  by,  num- 
bers of  people.  Little,  if  any,  community  of  feeling  subsisted  between  them 
and  Estella,  but  the  understanding  was  established  that  they  were  necessary  to 
her,  and  that  she  was  necessary  to  them.  Mrs.  Brandley  had  been  a friend  of 
Miss  Havisham’s  before  the  time  of  her  seclusion. 

In  Mrs.  Brandley’s  house  and  out  of  Mrs.  Brandley’s  house,  I suffered  every 
kind  and  degree  of  torture  that  Estella  could  cause  me.  The  nature  of  my  relations 
with  her,  which  placed  me  on  terms  of  familiarity  without  placing  me  on  terms  of 
favour,  conduced  to  my  distraction.  She  made  use  of  me  to  tease  other  admirers, 
and  she  turned  the  very  familiarity  between  herself  and  me,  to  the  account  of 
putting  a constant  slight  on  my  devotion  to  her.  If  I had  been  her  secretary. 


398 


Great  Expectations . 


steward,  half-brother,  poor  relation — if  I had  been  a younger  brother  of  her  ap- 
pointed husband — I could  not  have  seemed  to  myself,  further  from  my  hopes  when 
I was  nearest  to  her.  The  privilege  of  calling  her  by  her  name  and  hearing  her 
call  me  by  mine,  became  under  the  circumstances  an  aggravation  of  my  trials  ; 
and  while  I think  it  likely  that  it  almost  maddened  her  other  lovers,  I knew  too 
certainly  that  it  almost  maddened  me. 

She  had  admirers  without  end.  No  doubt  my  jealousy  made  an  admirer  of 
every  one  who  went  near  her  ; but  there  were  more  than  enough  of  them  without  that. 

I saw  her  often  at  Richmond,  I heard  of  her  often  in  town,  and  I used  often  to 
take  her  and  the  Brandleys  on  the  water  ; there  were  pic-nics,  fete  days,  plays, 
operas,  concerts,  parties,  all  sorts  of  pleasures,  through  which  I pursued  her — and 
they  were  all  miseries  to  me.  1 never  had  one  hour’s  happiness  in  her  society,  and 
yet  my  mind  all  round  the  four-and-twenty  hours  was  harping  on  the  happiness  of 
having  her  with  me  unto  death. 

Throughout  this  part  of  our  intercourse — and  it  lasted,  as  will  presently  be 
seen,  for  what  I then  thought  a long  time — she  habitually  reverted  to  that  tone 
which  expressed  that  our  association  was  forced  upon  us.  There  were  other  times 
when  she  would  come  to  a sudden  check  in  this  tone  and  in  all  her  many  tones, 
and  would  seem  to  pity  me. 

“ Pip,  Pip,”  she  said  one  evening,  coming  to  such  a check,  when  we  sat 
apart  at  a darkening  window  of  the  house  in  Richmond;  “will  you  never  take 
warning  ?” 

“ Of  what  ?” 

“Of  me.” 

“ Warning  not  to  be  attracted  by  you,  do  you  mean,  Estella  ?” 

“ Do  I mean  ! If  you  don’t  know  what  I mean,  you  are  blind.” 

I should  have  replied  that  Love  was  commonly  reputed  blind,  but  for  the  reason 
that  I always  was  restrained — and  this  was  not  the  least  of  my  miseries — by  a 
feeling  that  it  was  ungenerous  to  press  myself  upon  her,  when  she  knew  that  she 
could  not  choose  but  obey  Miss  Havisham.  My  dread  always  was,  that  this  know- 
ledge on  her  part  laid  me  under  a heavy  disadvantage  with  her  pride,  and  made 
me  the  subject  of  a rebellious  struggle  in  her  bosom. 

“ At  any  rate,”  said  I,  “ I have  no  warning  given  me  just  now,  for  you  -wrote  to 
me  to  come  to  you,  this  time.” 

“That’s  true,”  said  Estella,  with  a cold  careless  smile  that  always  chilled  me. 
After  looking  at  the  twilight  without,  for  a little  while,  she  went  on  to  say  : 

“ The  time  has  come  round  when  Miss  Havisham  wishes  to  have  me  for  a day 
at  Satis.  You  are  to  take  me  there,  and  bring  me  back,  if  you  will.  She  would 
rather  I did  not  travel  alone,  and  objects  to  receiving  my  maid,  for  she  has  a sen- 
sitive hoiTor  of  being  talked  of  by  such  people.  Can  you  take  me  ?” 

“ Can  I take  you,  Estella  !” 

“You  can  then  ? The  day  after  to-morrow,  if  you  please.  You  are  to  pay  all 
charges  out  of  my  purse.  You  hear  the  condition  of  your  going  ?” 

“ And  must  obey,”  said  I. 

This  was  all  the  preparation  I received  for  that  visit,  or  for  others  like  it : Miss 
Havisham  never  wrote  to  me,  nor  had  I ever  so  much  as  seen  her  handwriting. 
We  went  down  on  the  next  day  but  one,  and  we  found  her  in  the  room  where  I 
had  first  beheld  her,  and  it  is  needless  to  add  that  there  was  no  change  in  Sati9 
House. 

She  was  even  more  dreadfully  fond  of  Estella  than  she  had  been  when  I last 
saw  them  together ; I repeat  the  word  advisedly,  for  there  was  something  posi- 
tively dreadful  in  the  energy  of  her  looks  and  embraces.  She  hung  upon  Estella’a 
beauty,  hung  upon  her  words,  hung  upon  her  gestures,  and  sat  mumbling  her  own 


E Stella  with  Miss  Ha  vis  ham  again . 


399 


trembling  lingers  while  she  looked  at  her,  as  though  she  were  devouring  the 
beautiful  creature  she  had  reared. 

From  Estella  she  looked  at  me,  with  a searching  glance  that  seemed  to  pry 
into  my  heart  and  probe  its  wounds.  “ How  does  she  use  you,  Pip,  how  does 
she  use  you  ? ” she  asked  me  again,  with  her  witch-like  eagerness,  even  in 
Estella’s  hearing.  But,  when  we  sat  by  her  flickering  fire  at  night,  she  was  most 
weird ; for  then,  keeping  Estella’s  hand  drawn  through  her  arm  and  clutched 
in  her  own  hand,  she  extorted  from  her  by  dint  of  referring  back  to  what  Estella 
had  told  her  in  her  regular  letters,  the  names  and  conditions  of  the  men  whom 
she  had  fascinated  ; and  as  Miss  Havisham  dwelt  upon  this  roll,  with  the  in- 
tensity of  a mind  mortally  hurt  and  diseased,  she  sat  with  her  other  hand  on 
her  crutch  stick,  and  her  chin  on  that,  and  her  wan  bright  eyes  glaring  at  me, 
a very  spectre. 

I saw  in  this,  wretched  though  it  made  me,  and  bitter  the  sense  of  dependence, 
even  of  degradation,  that  it  awakened — I saw  in  this,  that  Estella  was  set  to  wreak 
Miss  Havisham’s  revenge  on  men,  and  that  she  was  not  to  be  given  to  me  until 
she  had  gratified  it  for  a term.  I saw  in  this,  a reason  for  her  being  beforehand 
assigned  to  me.  Sending  her  out  to  attract  and  torment  and  do  mischief,  Miss 
Havisham  sent  her  with  the  malicious  assurance  that  she  was  beyond  the  reach 
of  all  admirers,  and  that  all  who  staked  upon  that  cast  were  secured  to  lose.  I 
saw  in  this,  that  I,  too,  was  tormented  by  a perversion  of  ingenuity,  even  while 
the  prize  was  reserved  for  me.  I saw  in  this,  the  reason  for  my  being  staved  off 
so  long,  and  the  reason  for  my  late  guardian’s  declining  to  commit  himself  to  the 
formal  knowledge  of  such  a scheme.  In  a word,  I saw  in  this,  Miss  Havisham 
as  I had  her  then  and  there  before  my  eyes,  and  always  had  had  her  before  my 
eyes ; and  I saw  in  this,  the  distinct  shadow  of  the  darkened  and  unhealthy  house 
in  which  her  life  was  hidden  from  the  sun. 

The  candles  that  lighted  that  room  of  hers  were  placed  in  sconces  on  the  wall. 
They  were  high  from  the  ground,  and  they  burnt  with  the  steady  dulness  of  arti- 
ficial light  in  air  that  is  seldom  renewed.  As  I looked  round  at  them,  and  at 
the  pale  gloom  they  made,  and  at  the  stopped  clock,  and  at  the  withered  articles 
of  bridal  dress  upon  the  table  and  the  ground,  and  at  her  own  awful  figure  with 
its  ghostly  reflection  thrown  large  by  the  fire  upon  the  ceiling  and  the  wall,  I saw 
in  everything  the  construction  that  my  mind  had  come  to,  repeated  and  thrown 
back  to  me.  My  thoughts  passed  into  the  great  room  across  the  landing  where 
the  table  was  spread,  and  I saw  it  written,  as  it  were,  in  the  falls  of  the  cobwebs 
from  the  centre-piece,  in  the  crawlings  of  the  spiders  on  the  cloth,  in  the  tracks 
of  the  mice  as  they  betook  their  little  quickened  hearts  behind  the  panels,  and  in 
the  gropings  and  pausings  of  the  beetles  on  the  floor. 

It  happened  on  the  occasion  of  this  visit  that  some  sharp  words  arose  between 
Estella  and  Miss  Havisham.  It  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  seen  them  opposed. 

We  were  seated  by  the  fire,  as  just  now  described,  and  Miss  Havisham  still  had 
Estella’s  arm  drawn  through  her  own,  and  still  clutched  Estella’s  hand  in  hers, 
when  Estella  gradually  began  to  detach  herself.  She  had  shown  a proud  im- 
patience more  than  once  before,  and  had  rather  endured  that  fierce  affection  than 
accepted  or  returned  it. 

“ What !”  said  Miss  Havisham,  flashing  her  eyes  upon  her,  “ are  you  tired  oi 
me  ?” 

“ Only  a little  tired  of  myself,”  replied  Estella,  disengaging  her  arm,  and  mov- 
ing to  the  great  chimney-piece,  where  she  stood  looking  down  at  the  fire. 

“ Speak  the  truth,  you  ingrate  !”  cried  Miss  Havisham,  passionately  striking 
her  stick  upon  the  floor  ; “you  are  tired  of  me.” 

Estella  looked  at  her  witn  perfect  composure,  and  again  looked  down  at  the 


400 


Great  Expectations . 


fire.  Her  graceful  figure  and  her  beautiful  face  expressed  a self-possessed  indif- 
ference  to  the  wild  heat  of  the  other,  that  was  almost  cruel. 

“ You  stock  and  stone  !”  exclaimed  Miss  Havisham.  “ You  cold,  cold  heart !” 

“What!”  said  Estella,  preserving  her  attitude  of  indifference  as  she  leaned 
against  the  great  chimney-piece  and  only  moving  her  eyes ; “ do  you  reproach  me 
for  being  cold  ? You?” 

“ Are  you  not  ?”  was  the  fierce  retort. 

“ You  should  know,”  said  Estella.  “Iam  what  you  have  made  me.  Take  all 
the  praise,  take  all  the  blame ; take  all  the  success,  take  all  the  failure ; in  short, 
take  me.” 

“O,  look  at  her,  look  at  her!”  cried  Miss  Havisham,  bitterly;  “ Look  at  her, 
so  hard  and  thankless,  on  the  hearth  where  she  was  reared ! Where  I took  her 
into  this  wretched  breast  when  it  was  first  bleeding  from  its  stabs,  and  where  I 
have  lavished  years  of  tenderness  upon  her  !” 

“ At  least  I was  no  party  to  the  compact,”  said  Estella,  “for  if  I could  walk 
and  speak,  when  it  was  made,  it  was  as  much  as  I could  do.  But  what  would  you 
have  ? You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  I owe  everything  to  you.  What 
would  you  have  ?” 

“ Love,”  replied  the  other. 

“ You  have  it.” 

“ I have  not,”  said  Miss  Havisham. 

“Mother  by  adoption,”  retorted  Estella,  never  departing  from  the  easy  grace 
of  her  attitude,  never  raising  her  voice  as  the  other  did,  never  yielding  either  to 
anger  or  tenderness,  “Mother  by  adoption,  I have  said  that  I owe  everything  to 
you.  All  I possess  is  freely  yours.  All  that  you  have  given  me,  is  at  your  com- 
mand to  have  again.  Beyond  that,  I have  nothing.  And  if  you  ask  me  to  give 
you  what  you  never  gave  me,  my  gratitude  and  duty  cannot  do  impossibilities.” 

“ Did  I never  give  her,  love  ! ” cried  Miss  Havisham,  turning  wildly  to  me. 
“ Did  I never  give  her  a burning  love,  inseparable  from  jealousy  at  all  times,  and 
from  sharp  pain,  while  she  speaks  thus  to  me  ! Let  her  call  me  mad,  let  her  call 
me  mad ! ” 

“ Why  should  I call  you  mad,”  returned  Estella,  “ I,  of  all  people  ? Does  any 
one  live,  who  knows  what  set  purposes  you  have,  half  as  well  as  I do  ? Does  any 
one  live,  who  knows  what  a steady  memory  you  have,  half  as  well  as  I do  ? I 
who  have  sat  on  this  same  hearth  on  the  little  stool  that  is  even  now  beside  you 
there,  learning  your  lessons  and  looking  up  into  your  face,  when  your  face  was 
strange  and  frightened  me!” 

“ Soon  forgotten  ! ” moaned  Miss  Havisham.  “ Times  soon  forgotten  ! ” 

“No,  not  forgotten,”  retorted  Estella.  “Not forgotten,  but  treasured  up  in  my 
memory.  When  have  you  found  me  false  to  your  teaching  ? When  have  you 
found  me  unmindful  of  your  lessons  ? • When  have  you  found  me  giving  admission 
here,”  she  touched  her  bosom  with  her  hand,  “ to  anything  that  you  excluded  ? 
JBe  just  to  me.” 

“ So  proud,  so  proud  ! ” moaned  Miss  Havisham,  pushing  away  her  grey  hair 
with  both  her  hands. 

“ Who  taught  me  to  be  proud  ? ” returned  Estella.  “ Who  praised  me  when  I 
learnt  my  lesson  ? ” 

“ So  hard,  sc  hard ! ” moaned  Miss  Havisham,  with  her  former  action. 

“ Who  taught  me  to  be  hard  ? ” returned  Estella,  “ Who  praised  me  when  I 
learnt  my  lesson  ? ” 

“But ho  be  proud  and  hard  to  me!”  Miss  Havisham  quite  shrieked,  as  she 
stretched  out  her  arms.  “ Estella,  Estella,  Estella,  to  be  proud  and  hard  to 


me 


True  to  the  less  on y $r  false  ? 401 

Estella  looked  at  her  for  a moment  with  a kind  of  calm  wonder,  but  was  not 
otherwise  disturbed  ; when  the  moment  was  past,  she  looked  down  at  the  fire 
again. 

“I  cannot  think,”  said  Estella,  raising  her  eyes  after  a silence,  “why  you 
should  be  so  unreasonable  when  I come  to  see  you  after  a separation.  I have 
never  forgotten  your  wrongs  and  their  causes.  I have  never  been  unfaithful  to 
you  or  your  schooling.  I have  never  shown  any  weakness  that  I can  charge  myself 
with.” 

“ Would  it  be  weakness  to  return  my  love  ? ” exclaimed  Miss  Havisham.  “ But 
yes,  yes,  she  would  call  it  so  ! ” 

“ I begin  to  think,”  said  Estella,  in  a musing  way,  after  another  moment  of 
calm  wonder,  “ that  I almost  understand  how  this  comes  about.  If  you  had 
brought  up  your  adopted  daughter  wholly  in  the  dark  confinement  of  these  rooms, 
and  had  never  let  her  know  that  there  was  such  a thing  as  the  daylight  by  which 
she  has  never  once  seen  your  face — if  you  had  done  that,  and  then,  for  a purpose, 
had  wanted  her  to  understand  the  daylight  and  know  all  about  it,  you  would  have 
been  disappointed  and  angry  ? ” 

Miss  Havisham,  with  her  head  in  her  hands,  sat  making  a low  moaning,  and 
swaying  herself  on  her  chair,  but  gave  no  answer. 

“ Or,”  said  Estella,  “ — which  is  a nearer  case — if  you  had  taught  her,  from  the 
dawn  of  her  intelligence,  with  your  utmost  energy  and  might,  that  there  was  such 
a thing  as  daylight,  but  that  it  was  made  to  be  her  enemy  and  destroyer,  and  she 
must  always  turn  against  it,  for  it  had  blighted  you  and  would  else  blight  her  ; — 
if  you  had  done  this,  and  then,  for  a purpose,  had  wanted  her  to  take  naturally  to 
the  daylight  and  she  could  not  do  it,  you  would  have  been  disappointed  and 
angry  ?” 

Miss  Havisham  sat  listening  (or  it  seemed  so,  for  I could  not  see  her  face),  but 
still  made  no  answer. 

“ So,”  said  Estella,  “ I must  be  taken  as  I have  been  made.  The  success  is  not 
mine,  the  failure  is  not  mine,  but  the  two  together  make  me.” 

Miss  Havisham  had  settled  down,  I hardly  knew  how,  upon  the  floor,  among 
the  faded  bridal  relics  with  which  it  was  strewn.  I took  advantage  of  the  moment 
• — I had  sought  one  from  the  first — to  leave  the  room,  after  beseeching  Estella’s 
attention  to  her  with  a movement  of  my  hand.  When  I left,  Estella  was  yet 
standing  by  the  great  chimney-piece,  just  as  she  had  stood  throughout.  Miss 
Havisham’s  grey  hair  was  all  adrift  upon  the  ground,  among  the  other  bridal 
wrecks,  and  was  a miserable  sight  to  see. 

It  was  with  a depressed  heart  that  I walked  in  the  starlight  for  an  hour  and 
more,  about  the  court-yard,  and  about  the  brewery,  and  about  the  ruined  garden. 
When  I at  last  took  courage  to  return  to  the  room,  I found  Estella  sitting  at  Miss 
Havisham’s  knee,  taking  up  some  stitches  in  one  of  those  old  articles  of  dress  that 
were  dropping  to  pieces,  and  of  which  I have  often  been  reminded  since  by  the 
faded  tatters  of  old  banners  that  I have  seen  hanging  up  in  cathedrals.  After, 
wards,  Estella  and  I played  at  cards,  as  of  yore — only  we  were  skilful  now,  and 
played  French  games — and  so  the  evening  wore  away,  and  I went  to  bed. 

I lay  in  that  separate  building  across  the  court-yard.  It  was  the  first  time  I had 
ever  lain  down  to  rest  in  Satis  House,  and  sleep  refused  to  come  near  me.  A thou- 
sand Miss  Havishams  haunted  me.  She  was  on  this  side  of  my  pillow,  on  that,  at 
the  head  of  the  bed,  at  the  foot,  behind  the  half-opened  door  of  the  dressmg-room,  in 
the  dressing-room,  in  the  room  overhead,  in  the  room  beneath — everywhere.  At  last, 
when  the  night  was  slow  to  creep  on  towards  two  o’clock,  I felt  that  I absolutely 
could  no  longer  bear  the  place  as  a place  to  lie  down  in,  and  that  I must  get  up.  1 
therefore  got  up  and  put  on  my  clothes,  and  went  out  across  the  yard  into  the  long 


402 


Great  Expectations . 


stone  passage,  designing  to  gain  the  outer  court-yard  and  walk  there  for  the  reliei 
of  my  mind.  But,  I was  no  sooner  in  the  passage  than  I extinguished  my  candle; 
for,  I saw  Miss  Havisham  going  along  it  in  a ghostly  manner,  making  a low  cry. 

1 followed  her  at  a distance,  and  saw  her  go  up  the  staircase.  She  carried  a bare 
candle  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  probably  taken  from  one  of  the  sconces  in  hei 
own  room,  and  was  a most  unearthly  object  by  its  light.  Standing  at  the  bottom 
of  the  staircase,  I felt  the  mildewed  air  of  the  feast-chamber,  without  seeing  her 
open  the  door,  and  I heard  her  walking  there,  and  so  across  into  her  own  room, 
and  so  across  again  into  that,  never  ceasing  the  low  cry.  After  a time,  I tried  in 
the  dark  both  to  get  out  and  to  go  back,  but  I could  do  neither  until  some  streaks 
of  day  strayed  in  and  showed  me  where  to  lay  my  hands.  During  the  whole 
interval,  whenever  I went  to  the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  I heard  her  footstep,  saw 
her  candle  pass  above,  and  heard  her  ceaseless  low  cry. 

Before  we  left  next  day,  there  was  no  revival  of  the  difference  between  her  and 
Estella,  nor  was  it  ever  revived  on  any  similar  occasion ; and  there  were  foui 
similar  occasions,  to  the  best  of  my  remembrance.  Nor,  did  Miss  Havisham’s 
manner  towards  Estella  in  anywise  change,  except  that  I believed  it  to  have  some- 
thing like  fear  infused  among  its  former  characteristics. 

It  is  impossible  to  turn  this  leaf  of  my  life  without  putting  Bentley  Drumrnle’s 
name  upon  it ; or  I would,  very  gladly. 

On  a certain  occasion  when  the  Finches  were  assembled  in  force,  and  when 
good  feeling  was  being  promoted  in  the  usual  manner  by  nobody’s  agreeing  with 
anybody  else,  the  presiding  Finch  called  the  Grove  to  order,  forasmuch  as  Mr. 
Drummle  had  not  yet  toasted  a lady ; which,  according  to  the  solemn  constitution 
of  the  society,  it  was  the  brute’s  turn  to  do  that  day.  I thought  I saw  him  leer  in 
an  ugly  way  at  me  while  the  decanters  were  going  round,  but  as  there  was  no  love 
lost  between  us,  that  might  easily  be.  What  was  my  indignant  surprise  when  he 
called  upon  the  company  to  pledge  him  to  “ Estella  ! ” 

“ Estella  who  ? ” said  I. 

“ Never  you  mind,”  retorted  Drummle. 

“ Estella  of  where  ? ” said  I.  “ You  are  bound  to  say  of  where.”  Which  he 
was,  as  a Finch. 

“ Of  Richmond,  gentlemen,”  said  Drummle,  putting  me  out  of  the  question, 
“ and  a peerless  beauty.” 

Much  he  knew  about  peerless  beauties,  a mean  miserable  idiot ! I whispered 
Herbert. 

“ I know  that  lady,”  said  Herbert,  across  the  table,  when  the  toast  had  been 
honoured. 

“ Do  you  ?”  said  Drummle. 

“ And  so  do  I,”  I added  with  a scarlet  face. 

“ Do  you  ?”  said  Drummle.  “ Oh , Lord  !” 

This  was  the  only  retort — except  glass  or  crockery — that  the  heavy  creature  was 
capable  of  making ; but,  I became  as  highly  incensed  by  it  as  if  it  had  been 
barbed  with  wit,  and  I immediately  rose  in  my  place  and  said  that  I could  not 
but  regard  it  as  being  like  the  honourable  Finch’s  impudence  to  come  down  tc 
that  Grove — we  always  talked  about  coming  down  to  that  Grove,  as  a neat 
Parliamentary  turn  of  expression — down  to  that  Grove,  proposing  a lady  of  whom 
he  knew  nothing.  Mr.  Drummle  upon  this,  starting  up,  demanded  what  I meant 
by  that  ? Whereupon,  I made  him  the  extreme  reply  that  I believed  he  knew 
where  I was  to  be  found. 

Whether  it  was  possible  in  a Christian  country  to  get  on  without  blood,  aftei 
this,  was  a question  on  which  the  Finches  were  divided.  The  debate  upon  it  grew 
so  lively,  indeed,  that  at  least  six  more  honourable  members  told  six  more,  during 


Drummle  claims  to  know  E Stella. 


403 


the  di&cussion,  that  they  believed  they  knew  where  they  were  to  be  found.  How* 
ever,  it  was  decided  at  last  (the  Grove  being  a Court  of  Honour)  that  if  Mr 
Drummle  would  bring  never  so  slight  a certificate  from  the  lady,  importing  that 
he  had  the  honour  of  her  acquaintance,  Mr.  Pip  must  express  his  regret,  as  a 
gentleman  and  a Finch,  for  “ having  been  betrayed  into  a warmth  which.”  Next 
day  was  appointed  for  the  production  (lest  our  honour  should  take  cold  from 
delay),  and  next  day  Drummle  appeared  with  a polite  little  avowal  in  Estella’s 
hand,  that  she  had  had  the  honour  of  dancing  with  him  several  times.  This  left 
me  no  course  but  to  regret  that  I had  been  “betrayed  into  a warmth  which,” 
and  on  the  whole  to  repudiate,  as  untenable,  the  idea  that  I was  to  be  found  any- 
where. Drummle  and  I then  sat  snorting  at  one  another  for  an  hour,  while  the 
Grove  engaged  in  indiscriminate  contradiction,  and  finally  the  promotion  of  good 
feeling  was  declared  to  have  gone  ahead  at  an  amazing  rate. 

I tell  this  lightly,  but  it  was  no  light  thing  to  me.  For,  I cannot  adequately 
express  what  pain  it  gave  me  to  think  that  Estella  should  show  any  favour  to  a 
contemptible,  clumsy,  sulky  booby,  so  very  far  below  the  average.  To  the  present 
moment,  I believe  it  to  have  been  referable  to  some  pure  fire  of  generosity  and 
disinterestedness  in  my  love  for  her,  that  I could  nut  endure  the  thought  of  her 
stooping  to  that  hound.  No  doubt  I should  have  been  miserable  whomsoever  she 
had  favoured  ; but  a worthier  object  would  have  caused  me  a different  kind  and 
degree  of  distress. 

It  was  easy  for  me  to  find  out,  and  I did  soon  find  out,  that  Drummle  had 
begun  to  follow  her  closely,  and  that  she  allowed  him  to  do  it.  A little  while, 
and  he  was  always  in  pursuit  of  her,  and  he  and  I crossed  one  another  every  day. 
He  held  on,  in  a dull  persistent  way,  and  Estella  held  him  on  ; now  with  encou 
ragement,  now  with  discouragement,  now  almost  flattering  him,  now  openly 
despising  him,  now  knowing  him  very  well,  now  scarcely  remembering  who  he 
was. 

The  Spider,  as  Mr.  Jaggers  had  called  him,  was  used  to  lying  in  wait,  how- 
ever, and  had  the  patience  of  his  tribe.  Added  to  that,  he  had  a blockhead 
confidence  in  his  money  and  in  his  family  greatness,  which  sometimes  did  him 
good  service — almost  taking  the  place  of  concentration  and  determined  purpose. 
So,  the  Spider,  doggedly  watching  Estella,  outwatched  many  brighter  insects,  and 
would  often  uncoil  himself  and  drop  at  the  right  nick  of  time. 

At  a certain  Assembly  Ball  at  Richmond  (there  used  to  be  Assembly  Balls  at 
most  place's  then),  where  Estella  had  outshone  all  other  beauties,  this  blundering 
Drummle  so  hung  about  her,  and  with  so  much  toleration  on  her  part,  that  I 
resolved  to  speak  to  her  concerning  him.  I took  the  next  opportunity  : which 
was  when  she  was  waiting  for  Mrs.  Brandley  to  take  her  home,  and  was  sitting 
apart  among  some  flowers,  ready  to  go.  I was  with  her,  for  I almost  always 
accompanied  them  to  and  from  such  places. 

“ Are  you  tired,  Estella  ?” 

“ Rather,  Pip.” 

“ You  should  be.” 

“ Say,  rather,  I should  not  be;  for  I have  my  letter  to  Satis  House  to  wiite* 
before  I go  to  sleep.” 

“ Recounting  to-night’s  triumph  ?”  said  I.  “ Surely  a very  poor  one,  Estella.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? I didn’t  know  there  had  been  any.” 

“ Estella,”  said  I,  “do  look  at  that  fellow  in  the  comer  yonder,  who  is  looking 
over  here  at  us.” 

“ Why  should  I look  at  him  ?”  returned  Estella,  with  her  eyes  on  me  instead. 
“ What  is  there  in  that  fellow  in  the  comer  yonder — to  use  your  words—  that  J 

aeed  look  at  ?” 


4°4 


Great  Expectations . 


“Indeed,  that  is  the  very  question  I want  to  ask  you,”  said  I.  “For  he  has 
been  hovering  about  you  all  night.” 

“ Moths,  and  all  sorts  of  ugly  creatures,”  replied  Estella,  with  a glance  towards 
nim,  “ hover  about  a lighted  candle.  Can  the  candle  help  it  ?” 

“No,”  I returned  : “ but  cannot  the  Estella  help  it  ?” 

“Well!”  said  she,  laughing  after  a moment,  “perhaps.  Yes.  Any  thing  yv  «i 
like.” 

“But,  Estella,  do  hear  me  speak.  It  makes  me  wretched  that  you  should 
encourage  a man  so  generally  despised  as  Drummle.  You  know  he  is  despised.” 
“ Well  ?”  said  she. 

“You  know  he  is  as  ungainly  within  as  without.  A deficient,  ill-tempered, 
lowering,  stupid  fellow.” 

“Well  ?”  said  she. 

“You  know  he  has  nothing  to  recommend  him  but  money,  and  a ridiculous 
roll  of  addle-headed  predecessors ; now,  don’t  you  ?” 

“Well?”  said  she  again;  and  each  time  she  said  it,  she  opened  her  lovely 
eyes  the  wider. 

To  overcome  the  difficulty  of  getting  past  that  monosyllable,  I took  it  from  her, 
and  said,  repeating  it  with  emphasis,  “Well!  Then,  that  is  why  it  makes  me 
wretched.” 

Now,  if  I could  have  believed  that  she  favoured  Drummle  with  any  idea  of 
making  me — me — wretched,  I should  have  been  in  better  heart  about  it ; but  in 
that  habitual  way  of  hers,  she  put  me  so  entirely  out  of  the  question,  that  I could 
believe  nothing  of  the  kind. 

“Pip,”  said  Estella,  casting  her  glance  over  the  room,  “ don’t  be  foolish  about 
its  effect  on  you.  It  may  have  its  effect  on  others,  and  may  be  meant  to  have. 
It’s  not  worth  discussing.” 

“Yes  it  is,”  said  I,  “because  I cannot  bear  that  people  should  say,  ‘she 
throws  away  her  graces  and  attractions  on  a mere  boor,  the  lowest  in  the  crowd.’” 
“ I can  bear  it,”  said  Estella. 

“ Oh  ! don’t  be  so  proud,  Estella,  and  so  inflexible.” 

“ Calls  me  proud  and  inflexible  in  this  breath  !”  said  Estella,  opening  her 
hands.  “And  in  his  last  breath  reproached  me  for  stooping  to  a boor  !” 

“There  is  no  doubt  you  do,”  said  I,  something  hurriedly,  “for  I have  seen 
you  give  him  looks  and  smiles  this  very  night,  such  as  you  never  give  to — me.” 

“ Do  you  want  me  then,”  said  Estella,  turning  suddenly  with  a fixed  and 
serious,  if  not  angry  look,  “ to  deceive  and  entrap  you  ?” 

“ Do  you  deceive  and  entrap  him,  Estella  ?” 

“Yes,  and  many  others — all  of  them  but  you.  Here  is  Mrs.  Brandley.  I’ll 
say  no  more.” 

And  now  that  I have  given  the  one  chapter  to  the  theme  that  so  filled  my  heart, 
and  so  often  made  it  ache  and  ache  again,  I pass  on,  unhindered,  to  the  event  that 
had  impended  over  me  longer  yet ; the  event  that  had  begun  to  be  prepared  for, 
before  I knew  that  the  world  held  Estella,  and  in  the  days  when  her  baby  intelli 
gence  was  receiving  its  first  distortions  from  Miss  Havisham’s  wasting  hands. 

In  the  Eastern  story,  the  heavy  slab  that  was  to  fall  on  the  bed  of  state  in  the 
flush  of  conquest  was  slowly  wro  ght  out  of  the  quarry,  the  tunnel  for  the  rope  to 
hold  it  in  its  place  was  slowly  carried  through  the  leagues  of  rock,  the  slab  was 
slowly  raised  and  fitted  in  the  roof,  the  rope  was  rove  to  it  and  slowly  taken 
through  the  miles  of  hollow  to  the  great  iron  ring.  All  being  made  ready  with 
much  labour,  and  the  hour  come,  the  sultan  was  aioused  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
»:ir  the  sharpened  axe  that  was  to  sever  the  rope  from  the  great  iron  ring  was  pul 


A stormy  night  in  tht  Temple . 


^5 

Into  his  hand,  and  he  struck  with  it,  and  the  rope  parted  and  rushed  away,  and  the 
ceding  fell.  So,  in  my  case  ; all  the  work,  near  and  afar,  that  tended  to  the  end, 
had  been  accomplished ; and  in  an  instant  the  blow  was  struck,  and  the  roof  of 
my  stronghold  dropped  upon  me. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

I was  three-and-twenty  years  of  age.  Not  another  word  had  I heard  to 
enlighten  me  on  the  subject  of  my  expectations,  and  my  twenty-third  birthday  was 
a week  gone.  We  had  left  Barnard’s  Inn  more  than  a year,  and  lived  in  the 
Temple.  Our  chambers  were  in  Garden-court,  down  by  the  river. 

Mr.  Pocket  and  I had  for  some  time  parted  company  as  to  our  original  relations, 
though  we  continued  on  the  best  terms.  Notwithstanding  my  inability  to  settle  to 
anything — which  I hope  arose  out  of  the  restless  and  incomplete  tenure  on  which 
I held  my  means — I had  a taste  for  reading,  and  read  regularly  so  many  hours  a 
day.  That  matter  of  Herbert’s  was  still  progressing,  and  everything  with  me  was 
as  I have  brought  it  down  to  the  close  of  the  last  preceding  chapter. 

Business  had  taken  Herbert  on  a journey  to  Marseilles.  I was  alone,  and  had 
a dull  sense  of  being  alone.  Dispirited  and  anxious,  long  hoping  that  to-morrow 
or  next  week  would  clear  my  way,  and  long  disappointed,  I sadly  missed  the 
cheerful  face  and  ready  response  of  my  friend. 

It  was  wretched  weather ; stormy  and  wet,  stormy  and  wet ; mud,  mud,  mud, 
deep  in  nil  the  streets.  Day  after  day,  a vast  heavy  veil  had  been  driving  over 
London  from  the  East,  and  it  drove  still,  as  if  in  the  East  there  were  an  eternity  of 
cloud  and  wind.  So  furious  had  been  the  gusts,  that  high  buildings  in  town  had 
had  the  lead  stripped  off  their  roofs  ; and  in  the  country,  trees  had  been  torn  up, 
and  sails  of  windmills  carried  away ; and  gloomy  accounts  had  come  in  from  the 
coast,  of  shipwreck  and  death.  Violent  blasts  of  rain  had  accompanied  these 
rages  of  wind,  and  the  day  just  closed  as  I sat  down  to  read  had  been  the  worst 
of  all. 

Alterations  have  been  made  in  that  part  of  the  Temple  since  that  time,  and  it 
has  not  now  so  lonely  a character  as  it  had  then,  nor  is  it  so  exposed  to  the  river. 
We  lived  at  the  top  of  the  last  house,  and  the  wind  rushing  up  the  river  shook  the 
house  that  night,  like  discharges  of  cannon,  or  breakings  of  a sea.  When  the  rain 
came  with  it  and  dashed  against  the  windows,  I thought,  raising  my  eyes  to  them 
as  they  rocked,  that  I might  have  fancied  myself  in  a storm-beaten  iight-house. 
Occasionally,  the  smoke  came  rolling  down  the  chimney  as  though  it  could  not 
bear  to  go  out  into  such  a night;  and  when  I set  the  doors  open  and  looked  down 
the  staircase,  the  staircase  lamps  were  blown  out ; and  when  I shaded  my  face 
with  my  hands  and  looked  through  the  black  windows  (opening  them  ever  so  little, 
was  out  of  the  question  in  the  teeth  of  such  wind  and  rain)  I saw  that  the  lamps 
in  the  court  were  blown  out,  and  that  the  lamps  on  the  bridges  and  the  shore  were 
shuddering,  and  that  the  coal  fires  in  barges  on  the  river  were  being  carried  away 
before  the  wind  like  red-hot  splashes  in  the  rain. 

I read  with  my  watch  upon  the  table,  purposing  to  close  my  book  at  eleven 
o’clock.  As  I shut  it,  Saint  Paul’s,  and  all  the  many  church-clocks  in  the  City — ■ 
some  leading,  some  accompanying,  some  following — struck  that  hour.  The  sound 
was  curiously  flawed  by  the  wind ; and  I was  listening,  and  thinking  how  the  wind 
assailed  and  tore  it,  when  I heard  a footstep  on  the  stair. 

What  nervous  folly  made  me  start,  and  awfully  connect  it  with  the  footstep  of 


4 o6 


Great  Expectations . 


my  dead  sister,  matteiv  not.  It  was  past  in  a moment,  and  I listened  again,  an<* 
heard  the  footstep  stumble  in  coming  on.  Remembering  then,  that  the  staircase- 
lights  were  blown  out,  I took  up  my  reading-lamp  and  went  out  to  the  stair-head. 
Whoever  was  below  had  stopped  on  seeing  my  lamp,  for  all  was  quiet. 

“ There  is  some  me  down  there,  is  there  not  ? ” I called  out,  looking  down. 

“Yes,”  said  a voice  from  the  darkness  beneath. 

“ What  floor  do  you  want  ? ” 

“ The  top.  Mr.  Pip.” 

“ That  is  my  name. — There  is  nothing  the  matter  ? ” 

“ Nothing  the  matter,”  returned  the  voice.  And  the  man  came  on. 

I stood  with  my  lamp  held  out  over  the  stair-rail,  and  he  came  slowly  within  its 
light.  It  was  a shaded  lamp,  to  shine  upon  a book,  and  its  circle  of  light  was 
very  contracted  ; so  that  he  was  in  it  for  a mere  instant,  and  then  out  of  it.  In 
the  instant  I had  seen  a face  that  was  strange  to  me,  looldng  up  with  an  incom- 
prehensible air  of  being  touched  and  pleased  by  the  sight  of  me. 

Moving  the  lamp  as  the  man  moved,  I made  out  that  he  was  substantially 
dressed,  but  roughly ; like  a voyager  by  sea.  That  he  had  long  iron-grey  hair. 
That  his  age  was  about  sixty.  That  he  was  a muscular  man,  strong  on  his  legs, 
and  that  he  was  browned  and  hardened  by  exposure  to  weather.  As  he  ascended 
the  last  stair  or  two,  and  the  light  of  my  lamp  included  us  both,  I saw,  with  a 
stupid  kind  of  amazement,  that  he  was  holding  out  both  his  hands  to  me. 

“ Pray  what  is  your  business  ? ” I asked  him. 

“My  business?”  he  repeated,  pausing.  “Ah!  Yes.  I will  explain  my 
business,  by  your  leave.” 

“ Do  you  wish  to  cor  le  in  ? ” 

“Yes,”  he  replied  ; ‘I  wish  to  come  in,  Master.” 

I had  asked  him  thi  question  inhospitably  enough,  for  I resented  the  sort  of 
bright  and  gratified  recognition  that  sf  Ml  shown  in  his  face.  I resented  it,  because 
it  seemed  to  imply  that  he  expected  r^e  to  respond  to  it.  But,  I took  him  into 
the  room  I had  just  left,  and,  having  set  the  lamp  on  the  table,  asked  him  as 
civilly  as  I could  to  explain  himself. 

He  looked  about  him  with  the  strongest  air — an  air  of  wondering  pleasure,  as  if 
he  had  some  part  in  the  things  he  admired — and  he  pulled  off  a rough  outer  coat, 
and  his  hat.  Then,  I saw  that  his  bead  was  furrowed  and  bald,  and  that  the  long 
iron-grey  hair  grew  only  on  its  sides.  But,  I saw  nothing  that  in  the  least 
explained  him.  On  the  contrary,  I saw  him  next  moment,  once  more  holding  out 
both  his  hands  to  me. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” said  I,  half  suspecting  him  to  be  mad. 

He  stopped  in  his  looking  at  me,  and  slowly  rubbed  his  right  hand  over  his 
head.  “ It’s  disappointing  to  a man,”  he  said,  in  a coarse  broken  voice,  “ arter 
having  looked  for’ard  so  distant,  and  come  so  fur ; but  you’re  not  to  blame  for 
that — neither  on  us  is  to  blame  for  that.  Til  speak  in  half  a minute.  Give  me 
half  a minute,  please.” 

He  sat  down  on  a chair  that  stood  before  the  fire,  and  covered  his  forehead  with 
his  large  brown  veinous  hands.  I looked  at  him  attentively  then,  and  recoiled  a 
little  from  him  ; but  I did  not  know  him. 

“ There’s  no  one  nigh,”  said  he,  looking  over  his  shoulder ; “ is  there  ? ” 

“ Why  do  you,  a stranger  coming  into  my  rooms  at  ffiis  time  of  the  night,  ask 
that  question  ? ” said  I. 

“ You’re  a game  one,”  he  returned,  shaking  his  head  at  me  with  a deliberate 
affection,  at  once  most  unintelligible  and  most  exasperating ; “ I’m  glad  you’ve 
grow’d  up,  a game  one  ! But  don’t  catch  hold  of  me.  You’d  be  soiry  arterwards 
!cr  ha\e  done  it.” 


1 recognise  my  Visitor. 


407 

I relinquished  the  intention  he  had  detected,  for  I knew  him  ! Even  yet  I could 
not  recall  a single  feature,  but  I knew  him  ! If  the  wind  and  the  rain  had  driven 
away  the  intervening  years,  h°d  scattered  all  the  intervening  objects,  had  swept  us 
to  the  churchyard  where  we  first  stood  face  to  face  on  such  different  levels,  I could 
not  have  known  my  convict  more  distinctly  than  I knew  him  now,  as  he  sat  in  the 
chair  before  the  fire.  No  need  to  take  a file  from  his  pocket  and  show  it  to  me  ; 
no  need  to  take  the  handkerchief  from  his  neck  and  twist  it  round  his  head  ; no 
need  to  hug  himself  with  both  his  arms,  and  take  a shivering  turn  across  the  room, 
looking  back  at  me  for  recognition.  I knew  him  before  he  gave  me  one  of  those 
aids,  though,  a moment  before,  I had  not  been  conscious  of  remotely  suspecting 
his  identity. 

He  came  hack  to  where  I stood,  and  again  held  out  both  his  hands.  Not 
knowing  what  to  do — for,  in  my  astonishment  I had  lost  my  self-possession — I 
reluctantly  gave  him  my  hands.  He  grasped  them  heartily,  raised  them  to  his 
lips,  kissed  them,  and  still  held  them. 

‘‘You  acted  nobly,  my  boy,”  said  he.  “Noble  Pip!  And  I have  never 
forgot  it ! ” 

At  a change  in  his  manner  as  if  he  were  even  going  to  embrace  me,  I laid  a 
hand  upon  his  breast  and  put  him  away. 

“ Stay  ! ” said  I.  “ Keep  off!  If  you  are  grateful  to  me  for  what  I did  when 
I was  a little  child,  I hope  you  have  shown  your  gratitude  by  mending  your  way 
of  life.  If  you  have  come  here  to  thank  me,  it  was  not  necessaiy.  Still,  however, 
you  have  found  me  out,  ihere  must  be  something  good  in  the  feeling  that  has 
brought  you  here,  and  I vill  not  repulse  you  ; but  surely  you  must  understand 

My  attention  was  so  attracted  by  the  singularity  of  his  fixed  look  at  me,  that  the 
words  died  away  on  my  tongue. 

“ You  was  a-saying,”  he  observed,  when  we  had  confronted  one  another  in 
silence,  “ that  surely  I must  understand.  What,  surely  must  I understand  ? ” 

“ That  I cannot  wish  to  renew  that  chance  intercourse  with  you  of  long  ago, 
under  these  different  circumstances.  I t>m  glad  to  believe  you  have  repented  and 
recovered  yourself.  I am  glad  to  tell  you  zo.  I am  glad  that,  thinking  I deserve 
to  be  thanked,  you  have  come  to  thank  me.  But  our  ways  are  different  ways, 
none  the  less.  You  are  wet,  and  you  look  weary.  Will  you  drink  something 
before  you  go  ? ” 

He  had  replaced  his  neckerchief  loosely,  and  had  su>od,  keenly  observant  of  me, 
biting  a long  end  of  it.  “ I think,”  he  answered*  still  with  the  end  at  his  mouth 
and  still  observant  of  me,  “ that  I will  drink  (I  thank  you.)  afore  I go.” 

There  was  a tray  ready  on  a side-table*  I brought  it  to  the  table  near  the 
fire,  and  asked  him  what  he  would  have  ? He  touched  one  of  ffie  bottles  without 
looking  at  it  or  speaking,  and  I made  him  some  hot  rum-and-w^er.  I tried  to 
keep  my  hand  steady  while  I did  so,  but  his  look  at  me  as  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  with  the  long  draggled  end  of  his  neckerchief  between  his  teeth — evidently 
forgotten — made  my  hand  very  difficult  to  master.  When  at  last  I put  the  glass 
to  him,  I saw  with  amazement  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Up  to  this  time  I had  remained  standing,  not  to  disguise  that  I wished  him 
gone.  But  I was  softened  by  the  softened  aspect  of  the  man,  and  felt  a touch 
of  reproach.  “I  hope,”  said  I,  hurriedly  putting  something  into  a glass  for 
myself,  and  drawdnga  chair  to  the  table,  “ that  you  will  not  think  I spoke  harshly 
to  you  just  now.  I had  no  intention  of  doing  it,  and  I am  sorry  for  it  if  I did.  I 
wish  you  well,  and  happy ! ” 

As  I put  my  glass  to  my  lips,  he  glanced  with  surprise  at  the  end  of  his 
tecket chief,  dropping  from  his  mouth  when  he  opened  it,  and  stretched  out  his 


408  Great  Expectations. 

hand.  I gave  him  mine,  and  then  he  drank,  and  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes 
and  forehead. 

“ How  are  you  living  ? ” I asked  him. 

“ I’ve  been  a sheep-farmer,  stock-breeder,  other  trades  besides,  away  in  the 
new  world,”  said  he  : “ many  a thousand  mile  of  stormy  water  off  from  this.” 

“ I hope  you  have  done  well  ? ” 

“ I’ve  done  wonderful  well.  There’s  others  went  out  alonger  me  as  has  done 
well  too,  but  no  man  has  done  nigh  as  well  as  me.  I’m  famous  for  it.” 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  it.” 

“ I hope  to  hear  you  say  so,  my  dear  boy.” 

Without  stopping  to  try  to  understand  those  words  or  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  spoken,  I turned  off  to  a point  that  had  just  come  into  my  mind. 

“ Have  you  ever  seen  a messenger  you  once  sent  to  me,”  I inquired,  “ since  he 
undertook  that  trust  ? ” 

“Never  set  eyes  upon  him.  I warn’t  likely  to  it.” 

“He  came  faithfully,  and  he  brought  me  the  two  one-pound  notes.  I was  a 
poor  boy  then,  as  you  know,  and  to  a poor  boy  they  were  a little  fortune.  But, 
like  you,  I have  done  well  since,  and  you  must  let  me  pay  th?m  back.  You  can 
put  them  to  some  other  poor  boy’s  use.”  I took  out  my  purse. 

He  watched  me  as  I laid  my  purse  upon  the  table  and  opened  it,  and  he  watched 
me  as  I separated  two  one-pound  notes  from  its  contents.  They  were  clean  and 
new,  and  I spread  them  out  and  handed  them  over  to  him.  Still  watching  me, 
he  laid  them  one  upon  the  other,  folded  them  long-wise,  gave  them  a twist,  set 
fire  to  them  at  the  lamp,  and  dropped  the  ashes  into  the  tray. 

“ May  I make  so  bold,”  he  said  then,  with  a smile  that  was  like  a frown,  and 
with  a frown  that  was  like  a smile,  “ as  ask  you  hold  you  have  done  well,  since 
you  and  me  was  out  on  them  lone  shivering  marshes/?  ” 

“ How  ? ” 

“Ah!” 

He  emptied  his  glass,  got  up,  and  stood  at  the  side  of  the  fire,  with  his  heavy 
brown  hand  on  the  mantelshelf.  He  put  a foot  up  to  the  bars,  to  dry  and  warm 
it,  and  the  wet  boot  began  to  steam  ; hut,  he  neither  looked  at  it,  nor  at  the  fire, 
but  steadily  looked  at  me.  It  was  only  now  that  I began  to  tremble. 

When  my  lips  had  parted,  and  had  shaped  some  words  that  were  without  sound, 
I forced  myself  to  tell  him  (th^gh  I could  not  do  it  distinctly),  that  I had  been 
chosen  to  succeed  to  some  property. 

“ Might  a mere  warmi*t  ask  what  property  ? ” said  he. 

I faltered,  “ I don’t  *now.” 

“ Might  a mere  warmint  ask  whose  property  ? ” said  he. 

I faltered  again*  “I  don’t  know.” 

“Could  I m^e  a guess,  I wonder,”  said  the  Convict,  “at  your  income  since 
you  come  of/ge  1 As  to  the  first  figure,  now.  Five  ?” 

With  m/  heart  beating  like  a heavy  hammer  of  disordered  action,  I rose  out  of 
my  chair,  and  stood  with  my  hand  upon  the  back  of  it,  looking  wildly  at  him. 

“Concerning  a guardian,”  he  went  on.  “There  ought  to  have  been  some 
guardian  or  such-like,  whiles  you  was  a minor.  Some  lawyer,  maybe.  As  to  the 
first  letter  of  that  lawyer’s  name,  now.  Would  it  be  J ? ” 

All  the  truth  of  my  position  came  flashing  on  me  ; and  its  disappointments, 
dangers,  disgraces,  consequences  of  all  kinds,  rushed  in  in  such  a multitude  that  I 
was  borne  down  by  them  and  had  to  struggle  for  every  breath  I drew.  “ Put  it,’1 
he  resumed,  “as  the  employer  of  that  lawyer  whose  name  begun  with  a J,  and 
might  be  Jaggers — put  it  as  he  had  come  over  sea  to  Portsmouth,  and  had  landed 
there,  and  had  wanted  to  come  on  to  you.  ‘ However  you  have  found  me  out,* 


He  explains  my  great  mistake . 


409 


you  says  just  now.  Well ! however  did  I find  you  out  ? Why,  I wrote  from 
Portsmouth  to  a person  in  London,  for  particulars  of  your  address.  That  person’s 
name?  Why,  Wemmick.” 

I could  not  have  spoken  one  word,  though  it  had  been  to  save  my  life.  I stood, 
with  a hand  on  the  chair-back  and  a hand  on  my  breast,  where  I seemed  to  be 
suffocating — I stood  so,  looking  wildly  at  him,  until  I grasped  at  the  chair,  when 
the  room  began  to  surge  and  turn.  He  caught  me,  drew  me  to  the  sofa,  put  me 
up  against  the  cushions,  and  bent  on  one  knee  before  me : bringing  the  face  that 
I now  well  remembered,  and  that  I shuddered  at,  very  near  to  mine. 

“Yes,  Pip,  dear  boy,  I’ve  made  a gentleman  on  you  ! It’s  me  wot  has  done  it ! 
I swore  that  time,  sure  as  ever  I earned  a guinea,  that  guinea  should  go  to  you. 
I swore  arterwards,  sure  as  ever  I spec’lated  and  got  rich,  you  should  get  rich.  I 
lived  imigh,  that  you  should  live  smooth  ; I worked  hard  that  you  should  be  above 
work.  What  odds,  dear  boy  ? Do  I tell  it  fur  you  to  feel  a obligation  ? Not  a 
bit.  I tell  it,  fur  you  to  know  as  that  there  hunted  dunghill  dog  wot  you  kep  life 
in,  got  his  head  so  high  that  he  could  make  a gentleman — and,  Pip,  you’re  him  ! ” 

The  abhorrence  in  which  I held  the  man,  the  dread  I had  of  him,  the  repugnance 
with  which  I shrank  from  him,  could  not  have  been  exceeded  if  he  had  been  some 
terrible  beast. 

“ Look’ee  here,  Pip.  I’m  your  second  father.  You’re  my  son — more  to  me  nor 
any  son.  I’ve  put  away  money,  only  for  you  to  spend.  When  I was  a hired-out 
shepherd  in  a solitary  hut,  not  seeing  no  faces  but  faces  of  sheep  till  I half  forgot 
wot  men’s  and  women’s  faces  wos  like,  I see  yourn.  I drops  my  knife  many  a 
time  in  that  hut  when  I was  a eating  my  dinner  or  my  supper,  and  I says,  ‘ Here’s 
the  boy  again,  a looking  at  me  whiles  I eats  and  drinks  ! ’ I see  you  there  a many 
times  as  plain  as  ever  I see  you  on  them  misty  marshes.  ‘ Lord  strike  me  dead  ! * 
T.  says  each  time — and  I goes  out  in  the  open  air  to  say  it  under  the  open  heavens — 
‘ but  wot,  if  I gets  liberty  and  money,  I’ll  make  that  boy  a gentleman  ! ’ And  I 
lone  it.  Why,  look  at  you,  dear  boy  ! Look  at  these  here  lodgings  of  yourn,  fit 
for  a lord  ! A lord  ? Ah  ! You  shall  show  money  with  lords  for  wagers,  and 
beat  ’em!” 

In  his  heat  and  triumph,  and  in  his  knowledge  that  I had  been  nearly  fainting, 
he  did  not  remark  on  my  reception  of  all  this.  It  was  the  one  grain  of  relief  I had. 

“Look’ee  here  !”  he  went  on,  taking  my  watch  out  of  my  pocket,  and  turning 
towards  him  a ring  on  my  finger,  while  I recoiled  from  his  touch  as  if  he  had  been 
a snake,  “ a gold  ’un  and  a beauty  : thafs  a gentleman’s,  I hope  ! A diamond  all 
set  round  with  rubies  ; thafs  a gentleman’s,  I hope  ! Look  at  your  linen ; fine  and 
beautiful ! Look  at  your  clothes ; better  ain’t  to  be  got ! And  your  books  too,” 
turning  his  eyes  round  the  room,  “ mounting  up,  on  their  shelves,  by  hundreds ! 
And  you  read  ’em  ; don’t  you  ? I see  you’d  been  a reading  of  ’em  when  I come 
in.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! You  shall  read  ’em  to  me,  dear  boy ! And  if  they’re  in  foreign 
languages  wot  I don’t  understand,  I shall  be  just  as  proud  as  if  I did.” 

Again  he  took  both  my  hands  and  put  them  to  his  lips,  while  my  blood  ran  cold 
within  me. 

“ Don’t  you  mind  talking,  Pip,”  said  he,  after  again  drawing  his  sleeve  over  his 
eyes  and  forehead,  as  the  click  came  in  his  throat  which  I well  remembered — and 
he  was  all  the  more  horrible  to  me  that  he  was  so  much  in  earnest ; “ you  can’t  do 
better  nor  keep  quiet,  dear  boy.  You  ain’t  looked  slowly  forward  to  this  as  J 
have ; you  wosn’t  prepared  for  this,  as  I wos.  But  didn’t  you  never  think  it 
might  be  me  ?” 

“O  no,  no,  no,”  I returned.  “Never,  never!” 

“ Well,  you  see  it  wos  me,  and  single-handed, 
self  and  Mr.  Jaggers.” 


Never  a soul  in  it  but  my  o wl 


4io 


Great  Expectations . 


“Was  there  no  one  else  ? ” I asked. 

“No,”  said  he,  with  a glance  of  surprise  : “who  else  should  there  be  ? And, 
dear  boy,  how  good-looking  you  have  growed ! There’s  bright  eyes  somewheres — • 
eh  ? Isn’t  there  bright  eyes  somewheres,  wot  you  love  the  thoughts  on  ? ” 

0 Estella,  Estella ! 

“They  shall  be  yourn,  dear  boy,  if  money  can  buy  ’em.  Not  that  a gentlemai 
like  you,  so  well  set  up  as  you,  can’t  win  ’em  off  of  his  own  game ; but  money 
shall  back  you ! Let  me  finish  wot  I was  a telling  you,  dear  boy.  From  that 
there  hut  and  that  there  hiring-out,  I got  money  left  me  by  my  master  (winch 
died,  and  had  been  the  same  as  me),  and  got  my  liberty  and  went  for  myself.  In 
every  single  thing  I went  for,  I went  for  you.  ‘ Lord  strike  a blight  upon  it,’  I 
says,  wotever  it  was  I went  for,  ‘ if  it  ain’t  for  him  ! ’ It  all  prospered  wonderful. 
As  I giv’  you  to  understand  just  now,  I’m  famous  for  it.  It  was  the  money  left 
me,  and  the  gains  of  the  first  few  year,  wot  I sent  home  to  Mr.  Jaggers — all  for 
you — when  he  first  come  arter  you,  agreeable  to  my  letter.” 

O,  that  he  had  never  come ! That  he  had  left  me  at  the  forge — far  from  con- 
tented, yet,  by  comparison,  happy ! 

“And  then,  dear  boy,  it  was  a recompense  to  me,  look’ee  here,  to  know  in 
secret  that  I was  making  a gentleman.  The  blood  horses  of  them  colonists 
might  fling  up  the  dust  over  me  as  I was  walking ; what  do  I say  ? I says  to 
myself,  ‘ I’m  making  a better  gentleman  nor  ever  you'll  be  ! ’ When  one  of  ’em 
says  to  another,  * He  was  a convict,  a few  years  ago,  and  is  a ignorant  common 
fellow  now,  for  all  he’s  lucky,’  what  do  I say?  I says  to  myself,  4 If  I ain’t  a 
gentleman,  nor  yet  ain’t  got  no  learning,  I’m  the  owner  of  such.  All  on  you  owns 
stock  and  land  ; which  on  you  owns  a brouglit-up  London  gentleman  ? ' This  way 
I kep  myself  a going.  And  this  way  I held  steady  afore  my  mind  that  I would 
for  certain  come  one  day  and  see  my  boy,  and  make  myself  known  to  him,  on  his 
own  ground.” 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  I shuddered  at  the  thought  that  for  anything 
I knew,  his  hand  might  be  stained  with  blood. 

“ It  wam’t  easy,  Pip,  for  me  to  leave  them  parts,  nor  yet  it  wam’t  safe.  But  I 
held  to  it,  and  the  harder  it  was,  the  stronger  I held,  for  I was  determined,  and  my 
mind  firm  made  up.  At  last  I done  it.  Dear  boy,  I done  it !” 

1 tried  to  collect  my  thoughts,  but  I was  stunned.  Throughout,  I had  seemed 
to  myself  to  attend  more  to  the  wind  and  the  rain  than  to  him  ; even  now,  I could 
not  separate  his  voice  from  those  voices,  though  those  were  loud  and  his  was  silent. 

“ Where  will  you  put  me  ?”  he  asked,  presently.  “ I must  be  put  somewheres, 
dear  boy.” 

“ To  sleep  ?”  said  I. 

“Yes.  And  to  sleep  long  and  sound*”  he  answered  ; “for  I’ve  been  sea-tossed 
and  sea-washed,  months  and  months*” 

“ My  friend  and  companion,”  said  I,  rising  from  the  sofa,  “ is  absent ; you  must 
have  his  room.” 

“ He  won’t  coine  back  to-morrow ; will  he  ?” 

“No,”  said  I,  answering  almost  mechanically,  in  spite  of  my  utmost  efforts; 
“ not  to-morrow.” 

“Because,  look’ee  here,  dear  boy,”  he  said,  dropping  his  voice,  and  laying  a 
long  finger  on  my  breast  in  an  impressive  manner*  “caution  is  necessary*” 

“ How  do  you  mean  ? Caution  ?” 

“By  G — , it’s  Death  ! ” 

“What’s  death?” 

“ I was  sent  for  life.  It’s  death  to  come  back.  There’s  been  oveimuch  coming 
back  of  late  yeais,  and  I should  of  a certainty  be  hanged  if  took.” 


And  I wake  from  my  dream . 


411 


Nothing  was  needed  but  this  ; the  wretched  man,  after  loading  me  with  his 
wretched  gold  and  silver  chains  for  years,  had  risked  his  life  to  come  to  me,  and  I 
held  it  there  in  my  keeping  ! If  I had  loved  him  instead  of  abhorring  him  ; if  I 
had  been  attracted  to  him  by  the  strongest  admiration  and  affection,  instead  of 
shrinking  from  him  with  the  strongest  repugnance ; it  could  have  been  no  worse. 
On  the  contrary,  it  would  have  been  better,  for  his  preservation  would  then  have 
naturally  and  tenderly  addressed  my  heart. 

My  first  care  was  to  close  the  shutters,  so  that  no  light  might  be  seen  from  with- 
out, and  then  to  close  and  make  fast  the  doors.  While  I did  so,  he  stood  at  the 
table  drinking  rum  and  eating  biscuit ; and  when  I saw  him  thus  engaged,  I saw 
my  convict  on  the  marshes  at  his  meal  again.  It  almost  seemed  to  me  as  if  he 
must  stoop  down  presently,  to  file  at  his  leg. 

When  I had  gone  into  Herbert’s  room,  and  had  shut  off  any  other  communica- 
tion between  it  and  the  staircase  than  through  the  room  in  which  our  conversation 
had  been  held,  I asked  him  if  he  would  go  to  bed  ? He  said  yes,  but  asked  me 
for  some  of  my  “ gentleman’s  linen”  to  put  on  in  the  morning.  I brought  it  out, 
and  laid  it  ready  for  him,  and  my  blood  again  ran  cold  when  he  again  took  me  by 
both  hands  to  give  me  good  night. 

I got  away  from  him,  without  knowing  how  I did  it,  and  mended  the  fire  in  the 
room  where  we  had  been  together,  and  sat  down  by  it,  afraid  to  go  to  bed.  For 
an  hour  or  more,  I remained  too  stunned  to  think ; and  it  was  not  until  I began  to 
think,  that  I began  fully  to  know  how  wrecked  I was,  and  how  the  ship  in  which  I 
had  sailed  was  gone  to  pieces. 

Miss  Havisham’s  intentions  towards  me,  all  a mere  dream  ; Estella  not  designed 
for  me ; I only  suffered  in  Satis  House  as  a convenience,  a sting  for  the  greedy 
relations,  a model  with  a mechanical  heart  to  practice  on  when  no  other  practice 
was  at  hand  ; those  were  the  first  smarts  I had.  But,  sharpest  and  deepest  pain 
of  all — it  was  for  the  convict,  guilty  of  I knew  not  what  crimes,  and  liable  to  be 
taken  out  of  those  rooms  where  I sat  thinking,  and  hanged  at  the  Old  Bailey  door, 
that  I had  deserted  Joe. 

I would  not  have  gone  back  to  Joe  now,  I would  not  have  gone  back  to  Biddy 
now,  for  any  consideration  : simply,  I suppose,  because  my  sense  of  my  own  worth- 
less conduct  to  them  was  greater  than  every  consideration.  No  wisdom  on  earth 
could  have  given  me  the  comfort  that  I should  have  derived  from  their  simplicity 
and  fidelity ; but  I could  never,  never,  never,  undo  what  I had  done. 

In  every  rage  of  wind  and  rush  of  rain,  I heard  pursuers.  Twice,  I could  have 
sworn  there  was  a knocking  and  whispering  at  the  outer  door.  With  these  fears 
upon  me,  I began  either  to  imagine  or  recall  that  I had  had  mysterious  warnings 
of  this  man’s  approach.  That,  for  weeks  gone  by,  I had  passed  faces  in  the  streets 
which  I had  thought  like  his.  That,  these  likenesses  had  grown  more  numerous, 
as  he,  coming  over  the  sea,  had  drawn  nearer.  That,  his  wicked  spirit  had  some- 
how sent  these  messengers  to  mine,  and  that  now  on  this  stormy  night  he  was  as 
good  as  his  word,  and  with  me. 

Crowding  up  with  these  reflections  came  the  reflection  that  I had  seen  him  with 
my  childish  eyes  to  be  a desperately  violent  man ; that  I had  heard  that  other  con- 
vict reiterate  that  he  had  tried  to  murder  him  ; that  I had  seen  him  down  in  the 
ditch,  tearing  and  fighting  like  a wild  beast.  Out  of  such  remembrances  I brought 
into  the  light  of  the  fire,  a half-formed  terror  that  it  might  not  be  safe  to  be  shut 
up  there  with  him  in  the  dead  of  the  wild  solitary  night.  This  dilated  until  it  filled 
the  room,  and  impelled  me  to  take  a candle  and  go  in  and  look  at  my  dreadful 
burden. 

He  had  rolled  a handkerchief  round  his  head,  and  his  face  was  set  and  lowering 
in  his  sleep.  But  he  was  asleep,  and  quietly  too,  though  he  had  a pistol  lying  on 


412 


Great  Expectations . 


the  pillow.  Assured  of  this,  I softly  removed  the  key  to  the  outside  of  his  door, 
and  turned  it  on  him  before  I again  sat  down  by  the  fire.  Gradually  I slipped 
from  the  chair  and  lay  on  the  floor.  When  I awoke  without  having  parted  in  my 
sleep  with  the  perception  of  my  wretchedness,  the  clocks  of  the  Eastward  churches 
were  striking  five,  the  candles  were  wasted  out,  the  fire  was  dead,  and  the  wind  and 
rain  intensified  the  thick  black  darkness. 

THIS  IS  THE  END  OF  THE  SECOND  STAGE  OF  PIP’S  EXPECTATIONS. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

It  was  fortunate  for  me  that  I had  to  take  precautions  to  insure  (so  far  as  I couli) 
the  safety  of  my  dreaded  visitor ; for,  this  thought  pressing  on  me  when  I awoke, 
held  other  thoughts  in  a confused  concourse  at  a distance. 

The  impossibility  of  keeping  him  concealed  in  the  chambers  was  self-evident. 
It  could  not  be  done,  and  the  attempt  to  do  it  would  inevitably  engender  suspicion. 
True,  I had  no  Avenger  in  my  service  now,  but  I was  looked  after  by  an  inflam- 
matory old  female,  assisted  by  an  animated  rag-bag  whom  she  called  her  niece ; 
and  to  keep  a room  secret  from  them  would  be  to  invite  curiosity  and  exaggeration. 
They  both  had  weak  eyes,  which  I had  long  attributed  to  their  chronically  looking 
in  at  keyholes,  and  they  were  always  at  hand  when  not  wanted  ; indeed  that  was 
their  only  reliable  quality  besides  larceny.  Not  to  get  up  a mystery  with  these 
people,  I resolved  to  announce  in  the  morning  that  my  uncle  had  unexpectedly 
come  from  the  country. 

This  course  I decided  on  while  I was  yet  groping  about  in  the  darkness  for  the 
means  of  getting  a light.  Not  stumbling  on  the  means  after  all,  I was  fain  to  go 
out  to  the  adjacent  Lodge  and  get  the  watchman  there  to  come  with  his  lantern. 
Now,  in  groping  my  way  down  the  black  staircase  I fell  over  something,  and  that 
something  was  a man  crouching  in  a corner. 

As  the  man  made  no  answer  when  I asked  him  what  he  did  there,  but  eluded 
mv  touch  in  silence,  I ran  to  the  Lodge  and  urged  the  watchman  to  come  quickly : 
telling  him  of  the  incident  on  the  way  back.  The  wind  being  as  fierce  as  ever,  we 
did  not  care  to  endanger  the  light  in  the  lantern  by  rekindling  the  extinguished 
lamps  on  the  staircase,  but  we  examined  the  staircase  from  the  bottom  to  the  top 
and  found  no  one  there.  It  then  occurred  to  me  as  possible  that  the  man  might 
have  slipped  into  my  rooms  ; so,  lighting  my  candle  at  the  watchman’s,  and  leaving 
him  standing  at  the  door,  I examined  them  carefully,  including  the  room  in  which 
my  dreaded  guest  lay  asleep.  All  was  quiet,  and  assuredly  no  other  man  was  in 
those  chambers. 

It  troubled  me  that  there  should  have  been  a linker  on  the  stairs,  on  that  night 
of  all  nights  in  the  year,  and  I asked  the  watchman,  on  the  chance  of  eliciting 
some  hopeful  explanation  as  I handed  him  a dram  at  the  door,  whether  he  had 
admitted  at  his  gate  any  gentleman  who  had  perceptibly  been  dining  out?  Yes, 
he  said  ; at  different  times  of  the  night,  three.  One  lived  in  Fountain  Court,  and 
the  other  two  lived  in  the  Lane,  and  he  had  seen  them  all  go  home.  Again,  the 
only  other  man  who  dwelt  in  the  house  of  which  my  chambers  formed  a part,  had 
been  in  the  country  for  some  weeks  ; and  he  certainly  had  not  returned  in  the 
night,  because  we  had  seen  his  door  with  his  seal  on  it  as  we  came  up-stairs. 

“ The  night  being  so  bad,  sir,”  said  the  watchman,  as  he  gave  me  back  my  glass, 
“ uncommon  few  have  come  in  at  my  gate.  Besides  them  three  gentlemen  that  1 


Pro  vis. 


4*3 


have  named,  1 don’t  call  to  mind  another  since  about  eleven  o’clock,  when  a 
stranger  asked  for  you.” 

•*  My  uncle,”  I muttered.  “ Yes.” 

“ You  saw  him,  sir  ?” 

“ Yes.  Oh  yes.” 

“ Likewise  the  person  with  him  ?” 

“ Person  with  him  ! ” I repeated. 

“ I judged  the  person  to  be  with  him,”  returned  the  watchman.  “ The  person 
stopped,  when  he  stopped  to  make  inquiry  of  me,  and  the  person  took  this  way 
when  he  took  this  way.” 

“ What  sort  of  person  ?” 

The  watchman  had  not  particularly  noticed  ; he  should  say  a working  person  ; 
to  the  best  of  his  belief,  he  had  a dust-coloured  kind  of  clothes  on,  under  a dark 
coat.  The  watchman  made  more  light  of  the  matter  than  I did,  and  naturally ; 
not  having  my  reason  for  attaching  weight  to  it. 

When  I had  got  rid  of  him,  which  I thought  it  well  to  do  without  prolonging 
explanations,  my  mind  was  much  troubled  by  these  two  circumstances  taken 
together.  Whereas  they  were  easy  of  innocent  solution  apart — as,  for  instance, 
some  diner-out  or  diner-at-home,  who  had  not  gone  near  this  watchman’s  gate, 
might  have  strayed  to  my  staircase  and  dropped  asleep  there — and  my  nameless 
visitor  might  have  brought  some  one  with  him  to  show  him  the  way — still,  joined, 
they  had  an  ugly  look  to  one  as  prone  to  distrust  and  fear  as  the  changes  of  a few 
hours  had  made  me. 

I lighted  my  fire,  which  burnt  with  a raw  pale  flare  at  that  time  of  the  morning, 
and  fell  into  a doze  before  it.  I seemed  to  have  been  dozing  a whole  night  when 
the  clocks  struck  six.  As  there  was  full  an  hour  and  a half  between  me  and  day- 
light, I dozed  again ; now,  waking  up  uneasily,  with  prolix  conversations  about 
nothing,  in  my  ears  ; now,  making  thunder  of  the  wind  in  the  chimney  ; at 
length,  falling  off  into  a profound  sleep  from  which  the  daylight  woke  me  with  a 
start. 

All  this  time  I had  never  been  able  to  consider  my  own  situation,  nor  could  1 
do  so  yet.  1 had  not  the  power  to  attend  to  it.  I was  greatly  dejected  and  dis- 
tressed, but  in  an  incoherent  wholesale  sort  of  way.  As  to  forming  any  plan  for 
the  future,  I could  as  soon  have  formed  an  elephant.  When  I opened  the  shutters 
and  looked  out  at  the  wet  wild  morning,  all  of  a leaden  hue  ; when  I walked 
from  room  to  room  ; when  I sat  down  again  shivering,  before  the  fire,  waiting  for 
my  laundress  to  appear ; I thought  how  miserable  I was,  but  hardly  knew  why, 
or  how  long  I had  been  so,  or  on  what  day  of  the  week  I made  the  reflection,  or 
even  who  I was  that  made  it. 

At  last  the  old  woman  and  the  niece  came  in — the  latter  with  a head  not  easily 
distinguishable  from  her  dusty  broom — and  testified  surprise  at  sight  of  me  and 
the  fire.  To  whom  I imparted  how  my  uncle  had  come  in  the  night  and  was  then 
asleep,  and  how  the  breakfast  preparations  were  to  be  modified  accordingly.  Then, 
I washed  and  dressed  while  they  knocked  the  furniture  about  and  made  a dust ; 
and  so,  in  a sort  of  dream  or  sleep-waking,  I found  myself  sitting  by  the  fire 
again,  waiting  for — Him — to  come  to  breakfast. 

By-and-by,  his  door  opened  and  he  came  out.  I could  not  bring  myself  to  bear 
the  sight  of  him,  and  I thought  he  had  a worse  look  by  daylight. 

“ I do  not  even  know,”  said  I,  speaking  low  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  tableg 
“ by  what  name  to  call  you.  I have  given  out  that  you  are  my  uncle.” 

“ That’s  it,  dear  boy  f Call  me  uncle.” 

“ You  assumed  some  name,  I suppose,  on  board  ship  ? ” 

“Yes,  dear  boy.  I took  the  name  of  Provis.” 


414 


Great  Expectations. 


“Do  you  mean  to  keep  that  name  ?” 

“ Why,  yes,  dear  boy,  it’s  as  good  as  another — unless  you’d  like  another.” 

“ What  is  your  real  name  ? ” I asked  him  in  a whisper. 

“ Magwitch,”  he  answered,  in  the  same  tone  ; “ chrisen’d  Abel.” 

“ What  were  you  brought  up  to  be  ? ” 

“ A warmint,  dear  boy.” 

He  answered  quite  seriously,  and  used  the  word  as  if  it  denoted  some  profession 

“When  you  came  into  the  Temple  last  night ” said  I,  pausing  to  wondei 

whether  that  could  really  have  been  last  night,  which  seemed  so  long  ago. 

“ Yes,  dear  boy  ? ” 

“ When  you  came  in  at  the  gate  and  asked  the  watchman  the  way  here,  had 
you  any  one  with  you  ? ” 

“ With  me  ? No,  dear  boy.” 

“ But  there  was  some  one  there  ? ” 

“ I didn’t  take  particular  notice,”  he  said,  dubiously,  “not  knowing  the  ways 
of  the  place.  But  I think  there  was  a person,  too,  come  in  alonger  me.” 

“ Are  you  known  in  London  ? ” 

“ I hope  not ! ” said  he,  giving  his  neck  a jerk  with  his  forefinger  that  made  me 
turn  hot  and  sick. 

“ Were  you  known  in  London,  once  ? ” 

“Not  over  and  above,  dear  boy.  I was  in  the  provinces  mostly.” 

“ Were  you — tried — in  London  ? ” 

“Which  time  ? ” said  he,  with  a sharp  look. 

“ The  last  time.” 

He  nodded.  “ First  knowed  Mr.  Jaggers  that  way.  Jaggers  was  for  me.” 

It  was  on  my  lips  to  ask  him  what  he  was  tried  for,  but  he  took  up  a knife,  gave 
it  a flourish,  and  with  the  words,  “ And  what  I done  is  worked  out  and  paid  for  ! ” 
fell  to  at  his  breakfast. 

He  ate  in  a ravenous  way  that  was  very  disagreeable,  and  all  his  actions  were 
uncouth,  noisy,  and  greedy.  Some  of  his  teeth  had  failed  him  since  I saw  him 
eat  on  the  marshes,  and  as  he  turned  his  food  in  his  mouth,  and  turned  his  head 
sideways  to  bring  his  strongest  fangs  to  bear  upon  it,  he  looked  terribly  like  a 
hungry  old  dog. 

If  I had  begun  with  any  appetite,  he  would  have  taken  it  away,  and  I should 
have  sat  much  as  I did — repelled  from  him  by  an  insurmountable  aversion,  and 
gloomily  looking  at  the  cloth. 

“I’m  a heavy  grubber,  dear  boy”’  he  said,  as  a polite  kind  of  apology  when  he 
had  made  an  end  of  his  meal,  “ but  I always  was.  If  it  had  been  in  my  consti- 
tution to  be  a lighter  grubber,  I might  ha’  got  into  lighter  trouble.  Similarly,  I 
must  have  my  smoke.  When  I was  first  hired  out  as  shepherd  t’other  side  the 
world,  it’s  my  belief  I should  ha’  turned  into  a molloncolly-mad  sheep  myself,  ii 
I hadn’t  a had  my  smoke.” 

As  he  said  so  he  got  up  from  table,  and  putting  his  hand  into  the  breast  of  the 
pea-coat  he  wore,  brought  out  a short  black  pipe,  and  a handful  of  loose  tobacco 
of  the  kind  that  is  called  negro-head.  Having  filled  his  pipe,  he  put  the  surplus 
tobacco  back  again,  as  if  his  pocket  were  a drawer.  Then,  he  took  a live  coal 
from  the  fire  with  the  tongs,  and  lighted  his  pipe  at  it,  and  then  turned  round  on 
the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  went  through  his  favourite  action  of 
holding  out  both  his  hands  for  mine. 

“ And  this,”  said  he,  dandling  my  hands  up  and  down  in  his,  as  he  puffed  at 
his  pipe  ; “and  this  is  the  gentleman  what  I made  ! The  real  genuine  One  ! It 
does  me  good  fur  to  look  at  you,  Pip.  All  I stip’late,  is,  to  stand  by  and  look  at 
vou,  dear  boy  ! ” 


Death,  if  identified. 


4*5 


I released  my  hands  as  soon  as  I could,  and  found  that  I was  beginning  slowlj 
tc  settle  down  to  the  contemplation  of  my  condition.  What  I was  chained  to, 
and  how  heavily,  became  intelligible  to  me,  as  I heard  his  hoarse  voice,  and  sat 
looking  up  at  his  furrowed  bald  head  with  its  iron  grey  hair  at  the  sides. 

“I  mustn’t  see  my  gentleman  a footing  it  in  the  mire  of  the  streets;  theie 
mustn’t  be  no  mud  on  his  boots.  My  gentleman  must  have  horses,  Pip  ! Horses 
to  ride,  and  horses  to  drive,  and  horses  for  his  servant  to  ride  and  drive  as  well. 
Shall  colonists  have  their  horses  (and  blood-’uns,  if  you  please,  good  Lord  !)  and 
not  my  London  gentleman  ? No,  no.  We’ll  show  ’em  another  pair  of  shoes  than 
that,  Pip  ; won’t  us  ? ” 

He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a great  thick  pocket-book,  bursting  with  papers,  and 
tossed  it  on  the  table. 

“There’s  something  worth  spending  in  that  there  book,  dear  boy.  It’s  yourn. 
All  I’ve  got  ain’t  mine ; it’s  yourn.  Don’t  you  be  afeerd  on  it.  There’s  more 
where  that  come  from.  I’ve  come  to  the  old  country  fur  to  see  my  gentleman 
spend  his  money  like  a gentleman.  That’ll  be  my  pleasure.  My  pleasure  ’ull  be 
fur  to  see  him  do  it.  And  blast  you  all ! ” he  wound  up,  looking  round  the  room 
and  snapping  his  fingers  once  with  a loud  snap,  “ blast  you  every  one,  from  the 
judge  in  his  wig,  to  the  colonist  a stirring  up  the  dust,  I’ll  show  a better  gentleman 
than  the  whole  kit  on  you  put  together  ! ” 

“ Stop  ! ” said  I,  almost  in  a frenzy  of  fear  and  dislike,  “ I want  to  speak  to  you. 
I want  to  know  what  is  to  be  done.  I want  to  know  how  you  are  to  be  kept  out 
of  danger,  how  long  you  are  going  to  stay,  what  projects  you  have.” 

“Look’ee  here,  Pip,”  said  he,  laying  his  hand  on  my  arm  in  a suddenly  altered 
and  subdued  manner  ; “ first  of  all,  look’ee  here.  I forgot  myself  half  a minute 
ago.  What  I said  was  low ; that’s  what  it  was ; low.  Look’ee  here,  Pip.  Look 
over  it.  I ain’t  a going  to  be  low.” 

“First,”  I resumed,  half-groaning,  “what  precautions  can  be  taken  against 
your  being  recognised  and  seized  ?” 

“No,  dear  boy,”  he  said,  in  the  same  tone  as  before,  “that  don’t  go  first. 
Lowness  goes  first.  I ain’t  took  so  many  year  to  make  a gentleman,  not  without 
knowing  what’s  due  to  him.  Look’ee  here,  Pip.  I was  low ; that’s  what  I was ; 
low.  Look  over  it,  dear  boy.” 

Some  sense  of  the  grimly-ludicrous  moved  me  to  a fretful  laugh,  as  I replied,  “ I 
ha'ie  looked  over  it.  In  Heaven’s  name,  don’t  harp  upon  it !” 

“Yes,  but  look’ee  here,”  he  persisted.  “ Dear  boy,  I ain’t  come  so  fur,  not 

fur  to  be  low.  Now,  go  on,  dear  boy.  You  was  a saying ” 

“ How  are  you  to  be  guarded  from  the  danger  you  have  incurred  ?” 

“ Well,  dear  boy,  the  danger  ain’t  so  great.  Without  I was  informed  agen,  the 
danger  ain’t  so  much  to  signify.  There’s  Jaggers,  and  there’s  Wemmick,  and 
there’s  you.  Who  else  is  there  to  inform  ?” 

“ Is  there  no  chance  person  who  might  identify  you  in  the  street  ?”  said  I. 

“ Well,”  he  returned,  “ there  ain’t  many.  Nor  yet  I don’t  intend  to  advertise 
myself  in  the  newspapers  by  the  name  of  A.  M.  come  back  from  Botany  Bay ; 
and  years  have  rolled  away,  and  who’s  to  gain  by  it  ? Still,  look’ee  here,  Pip. 
If  the  danger  had  been  fifty  times  as  great,  I should  ha’  come  to  see  you,  mind 
you,  just  the  same.” 

“ And  how  long  do  you  remain  ?” 

“ How  long  ?”  said  he,  taking  his  black  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  dropping  his 
jaw  as  he  stared  at  me.  “ I’m  not  a going  back.  I’ve  come  for  good.” 

“ Where  are  you  to  live  ?”  said  I.  “ What  is  to  be  done  with  you  ? Where 
will  you  be  safe  ?” 

“ Dear  boy,”  he  returned,  " there’s  disguising  wigs  can  be  bought  for  money, 


416 


Great  Expectations, 


and  there’s  hair  powder,  and  spectacles,  and  black  clothes — shorts  and  what  not. 
Others  has  done  it  safe  afore,  and  what  others  has  done  afore,  others  can  do  agen. 
As  to  the  where  and  how  of  living,  dear  boy,  give  me  your  own  opinions  on  it.” 

“You  take  it  smoothly  now,”  said  I,  “ but  you  were  very  serious  last  night, 
when  you  swore  it  was  Death.” 

“And  so  I swear  it  is  Death,”  said  he,  putting  his  pipe  back  in  his  mouth, 
“ and  Death  by  the  rope,  in  the  open  street  not  fur  from  this,  and  it’s  serious  that 
you  should  fully  understand  it  to  be  so.  What  then,  when  that’s  once  done  ? 
Here  I am.  To  go  back  now,  ’ud  be  as  bad  as  to  stand  ground — worse.  Besides, 
Pip,  I’m  here,  because  I’ve  meant  it  by  you,  years  and  years.  As  to  what  I dare, 
I’m  a old  bird  now,  as  has  dared  all  manner  of  traps  since  first  he  was  fledged, 
and  I’m  not  afeerd  to  perch  upon  a scarecrow.  If  there’s  Death  hid  inside  of  it, 
there  is,  and  let  him  come  out,  and  I’ll  face  him,  and  then  I’ll  believe  in  him  and 
not  afore.  And  now  let  me  have  a look  at  my  gentleman  agen.” 

Once  more  he  took  me  by  both  hands  and  surveyed  me  with  an  air  of  admiring 
proprietorship,  smoking  with  great  complacency  all  the  while. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  I could  do  no  better  than  secure  him  some  quiet  lodging 
hard  by,  of  which  he  might  take  possession  when  Herbert  returned  : whom  I 
expected  in  two  or  three  days.  That  the  secret  must  be  confided  to  Herbert  as  a 
matter  of  unavoidable  necessity,  even  if  I could  have  put  the  immense  relief  I 
should  derive  from  sharing  it  with  him  out  of  the  question,  was  plain  to  me.  But 
it  was  by  no  means  so  plain  to  Mr.  Provis  (I  resolved  to  call  him  by  that  name), 
who  reserved  his  consent  to  Herbert’s  participation  until  he  should  have  seen  him 
and  formed  a favourable  judgment  of  his  physiognomy.  “And  even  then,  dear 
boy,”  said  he,  pulling  a greasy  little  clasped  black  Testament  out  of  his  pocket, 
“ we’ll  have  him  on  his  oath.” 

To  state  that  my  terrible  patron  carried  this  little  black  book  about  the  world 
solely  to  swear  people  on  in  cases  of  emergency,  would  be  to  state  what  I never 
quite  established — but  this  I can  say,  that  I never  knew  him  put  it  to  any  other 
use.  The  book  itself  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  stolen  from  some  court 
of  justice,  and  perhaps  his  knowledge  of  its  antecedents,  co  ' bined  with  his  own 
experience  in  that  wise,  gave  him  a reliance  on  its  powers  as  a sort  of  legal  spell 
or  charm.  On  this  first  occasion  of  his  producing  it,  I recalled  how  he  had  made 
me  swear  fidelity  in  the  churchyard  long  ago,  and  how  he  had  described  himself 
last  night  as  always  swearing  to  his  resolutions  in  his  solitude. 

As  he  was  at  present  dressed  in  a seafaring  slop  suit,  in  which  he  looked  as  if 
he  had  some  parrots  and  cigars  to  dispose  of,  I next  discussed  with  him  what 
oress  he  should  wear.  He  cherished  an  extraordinary  belief  in  the  virtues  of 
“ shorts  ” as  a disguise,  and  had  in  his  own  mind  sketched  a dress  for  himself 
that  would  have  made  him  something  between  a dean  and  a dentist.  It  was  with 
considerable  difficulty  that  I won  him  over  to  the  assumption  of  a dress  more  like 
a prosperous  farmer’s ; and  we  arranged  that  he  should  cut  his  hair  close,  and 
wear  a little  powder.  Lastly,  as  he  had  not  yet  been  seen  by  the  laundress  ow 
her  niece,  he  was  to  keep  himself  out  of  their  view  until  his  change  of  dress  was 
made. 

It  would  seem  a simple  matter  to  decide  on  these  precautions ; but  in  my  dazed, 
not  to  say  distracted,  state,  it  took  so  long,  that  I did  not  get  out  to  further  them 
until  two  or  three  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  to  remain  shut  up  in  the  chambers 
while  I was  gone,  and  was  on  no  account  to  open  the  door. 

There  being  to  my  knowledge  a respectable  lodging-house  in  Essex-street,  the 
back  of  which  looked  into  the  Temple,  and  was  almost  within  hail  of  my  windows, 
I first  of  all  repaired  to  that  house,  and  was  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  the  second 
Gooi  for  my  uncle,  Mr.  Provis.  I then  went  from  shop  to  shop,  making  such 


/ try  in  vain  to  bide  him , 


4T7 


purchases  as  were  necessary  to  the  change  in  his  appearance.  This  business 
transacted,  I turned  my  face,  on  my  own  account,  to  Little  Britain.  Mr.  Jaggers 
was  at  his  desk,  but,  seeing  me  enter,  got  up  immediately  and  stood  before  his  fire. 
“ Now,  Pip,”  said  he,  “ be  careful.” 

“ I will,  sir,”  I returned.  For,  coming  along  I had  thought  well  of  what  I was 
going  to  say. 

“Don’t  commit  yourself,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “and  don’t  commit  any  one.  You 
understand — any  one.  Don’t  tell  me  anything : I don’t  want  to  know  anything  : 
I am  not  curious.” 

Of  course  I saw  that  he  knew  the  man  was  come. 

“I  merely  want,  Mr.  Jaggers,”  said  I,  “to  assure  myself  what  I have  been 
told,  is  true.  I have  no  hope  of  its  being  untrue,  but  at  least  I may  verify  it.” 
Mr.  Jaggers  nodded.  “ But  did  you  say  ‘ told  ’ or  * informed  ’ ?”  he  asked  me, 
with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  not  looking  at  me,  but  looking  in  a listening  way 
at  the  floor.  “ Told  would  seem  to  imply  verbal  communication.  You  can’t 
have  verbal  communication  with  a man  in  New  South  Wales,  you  know.” 

“ I will  say,  informed,  Mr.  Jaggers.” 

“ Good.” 

“ I have  been  informed  by  a person  named  Abel  Magwitch,  that  he  is  the 
benefactor  so  long  unknown  to  me.” 

“ That  is  the  man,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ — in  New  South  Wales.” 

“ And  only  he  ?”  said  I. 
u And  only  he,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“I  am  not  so  unreasonable,  sir,  as  to  think  you  at  all  responsible  for  my 
mistakes  and  wrong  conclusions ; but  I always  supposed  it  was  Miss  Havisham.” 
“As  you  say,  Pip,”  returned  Mr.  Jaggers,  turning  his  eyes  upon  me  coolly, 
and  taking  a bite  at  his  forefinger,  “ I am  not  at  all  responsible  for  that.” 

“ And  yet  it  looked  so  like  it,  sir,”  I pleaded  with  a downcast  heart. 

“ Not  a particle  of  evidence,  Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  shaking  his  head  and 
gathering  up  his  skirts.  “Take  nothing  on  its  looks;  take  everything  on 
evidence.  There’s  no  better  rule.” 

“ I have  no  more  to  say,”  said  I,  with  a sigh,  after  standing  silent  for  a little 
while.  “ I have  verified  my  information,  and  there’s  an  end.” 

“And  Magwitch — in  New  South  Wales — having  at  last  disclosed  himself,” 
said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “you  will  comprehend,  Pip,  how  rigidly  throughout  my  com- 
munication with  you,  I have  always  adhered  to  the  strict  line  of  fact.  There  has 
never  been  the  least  departure  from  the  strict  line  of  fact.  You  are  quite  aware 
of  that?” 

“ Quite,  sir.” 

“ I communicated  to  Magwitch — -in  New  South  Wales — when  he  first  wrote  to 
me — from  New  South  Wales — the  caution  that  he  must  not  expect  me  ever  to 
deviate  from  the  strict  line  of  fact.  I also  communicated  to  him  another  caution. 
He  appeared  to  me  to  have  obscurely  hinted  in  his  letter  at  some  distant  idea  of 
seeing  you  in  England  here.  I cautioned  him  that  I must  hear  no  more  of  that ; 
that  he  was  not  at  all  likely  to  obtain  a pardon  ; that  he  was  expatriated  for  the  term 
of  his  natural  life ; and  that  his  presenting  himself  in  this  countiy  would  be  an  act 
of  felony,  rendering  him  liable  to  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law.  I gave 
Magwitch  that  caution,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  looking  hard  at  me ; “I  wrote  it  to 
New  South  Wales.  He  guided  himself  by  it,  no  doubt.” 

“ No  doubt,”  said  I, 

“ I have  been  informed  by  Wemmick,”  pursued  Mr.  Jaggers,  still  looking 
hard  at  me,  “ that  he  has  received  a letter,  under  date  Portsmouth,  from  a colonist 
of  the  name  of  Purvis,  or ” 


E E 


,.8 


Great  Expectations . 


Or  Provis,”  I suggested. 

“Or  Provis — thank  you,  Pip.  Perhaps  it  is  Provis?  Perhaps  you  know  it'* 
Prods  ?” 

“ Yes/*  said  1. 

“ You  know  it’s  Provis.  A letter,  under  date  Portsmouth,  from  a colonist  ot 
the  name  of  Provis,  asking  for  the  particulars  of  your  address,  on  behalf  of 
Magwitch.  Wemmick  sent  him  the  particulars,  I understand,  by  return  of  post. 
Probably  it  is  through  Provis  that  you  have  received  the  explanation  of  Ma  gwitch 
— in  New  South  Wales  ?” 

“It  came  through  Provis/’  I replied. 

“ Good  day,  Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  offering  his  hand  ; “ glad  to  have  seen 
you.  In  writing  by>  post  to  Magwitch — in  New  South  Wales — or  in  communi- 
cating with  him  through  Provis,  have  the  goodness  to  mention  that  the  particulars 
and  vouchers  of  our  long  account  shall  be  sent  to  you,  together  with  the  balance ; 
for  there  is  still  a balance  remaining.  Good  day,  Pip  !” 

We  shook  hands,  and  he  looked  hard  at  me  as  long  as  he  could  see  me.  I 
turned  at  the  door,  and  he  was  still  looking  hard  at  me,  while  the  two  vile  casts 
on  the  shelf  seemed  to  be  trying  to  get  their  eyelids  open,  and  to  force  out  of  their 
swollen  throats,  “ O,  what  a man  he  is  !” 

Wemmick  was  out,  and  though  he  had  been  at  his  desk  he  could  have  done 
nothing  for  me.  I went  straight  back  to  the  Temple,  where  I found  the  terrible 
Provis  drinking  rum-and-water,-  and  smoking  negro-head,  in  safety. 

Next  day  the  clothes  I had  ordered  all  came  home,  and  he  put  them  on. 
Whatevei  he  put  on,  became  him  less  (it  dismally  seemed  to  me)  than  what  he 
had  worn  before.  To  my  thinking  there  was  something  in  him  that  made  it 
hopeless  to  attempt  to  disguise  him.  The  more  I dressed  him,  and  the  better  I 
dressed  him,  the  more  he  looked  like  the  slouching  fugitive  on  the  marshes.  This 
effect  on  my  anxious  fancy  was  partly  referable,  no  doubt,  to  his  old  face  and 
manner  growing  more  familiar  to  me  : but  I believed  too  that  he  dragged  one  ot 
his  legs  as  if  there  were  still  a weight  of  iron  on  it,  and  that  from  head  to  foot 
there  was  Convict  in  the  very  grain  of  the  man. 

The  influences  of  his  solitary  hut-life  were  upon  him  besides,  and  gave  him  a 
savage  air  that  no  dress  could  tame  ; added  to  these  were  the  influences  of  his 
subsequent  branded  life  among  men,  and,  crowning  all,  his  consciousness  that  he 
was  dodging  and  hiding  now.  In  all  his  ways  of  sitting  and  standing,  and  eating 
and  drinldng — of  brooding  about,  in  a high-shouldered  reluctant  style — of  taking 
out  his  great  horn-handled  jack-knife  and  wiping  it  on  his  legs  and  cutting  his 
food — of  lifting  light  glasses  and  cups  to  his  lips,  as  if  they  were  clumsy  pannikins 
— of  chopping  a wedge  off  his  bread,  and  soaking  up  with  it  the  last  fragments  of 
gravy  round  and  round  his  plate,  as  if  to  make  the  most  of  an  allowance,  and  then 
drying  his  fingers  on  it,  and  then  swallowing  it — in  these  ways  and  a thousand 
other  small  nameless  instances  arising  every  minute  in  the  day,  there  was  Prisoner, 
Felon,  Bondsman,  plain  as  plain  could  be. 

It  had  been  his  own  idea  to  wear  that  touch  of  powder,  and  I conceded  the 
powder  after  overcoming  the  shorts.  But  I can  compare  the  effect  of  it,  when  on, 
to  nothing  but  the  probable  effect  of  rouge  upon  the  dead ; so  awful  was  the 
manner  in  which  everything  in  him  that  it  was  most  desirable  to  repress,  started 
through  that  thin  layer  of  pretence,  and  seemed  to  come  blazing  out  at  the  crown 
of  his  head.  It  was  abandoned  as  soon  as  tried,  and  he  wore  his  grizzled  hair 
cut  short. 

Words  cannot  tell  what  a sense  I had,  at  the  same  time,  of  the  dreadful  mystery 
that  he  was  to  me.  When  he  fell  asleep  of  an  evening,  with  his  knotted  hand? 
clenching  the  sides  of  the  easy-chair,  and  his  bald  head  tattooed  with  deep 


Much  Virtue  in  an  Affidavit . 


419 


•ninkles  falling  forward  on  his  breast,  I would  sit  and  look  at  him,  wondering 
what  he  had  done,  and  loading  him  with  all  the  crimes  in  the  Calendar,  until  the 
impulse  was  powerful  on  me  to  start  up  and  fly  from  him.  E\ery  hour  so 
increased  my  abhorrence  of  him,  that  I even  think  I might  have  yielded  to  this 
impulse  in  the  first  agonies  of  being  so  haunted,  notwithstanding  all  he  had  done 
for  me  and  the  risk  he  ran,  but  for  the  knowledge  that  Herbert  must  soon  come 
back.  Once,  I actually  did  start  out  of  bed  in  the  night,  and  begin  to  dress 
myself  in  my  worst  clothes,  hurriedly  intending  to  leave  him  there  with  everything 
else' I possessed,  and  enlist  for  India,  as  a private  soldier. 

I doubt  if  a ghost  could  have  been  more  terrible  to  me,  up  in  those  lonely  rooms 
in  the  long  evenings  and  long  nights,  with  the  wind  and  the  rain  always  rilshing 
by.  A ghost  could  not  have  been  taken  and  hanged  on  my  account,  and  the 
consideration  that  he  could  be,  and  the  dread  that  he  would  be,  were  no  small 
addition  to  my  horrors.  When  he  was  not  asleep,  or  playing  a complicated  kind 
of  Patience  with  a ragged  pack  of  cards  of  his  own — a game  that  I never  saw 
before  or  since,  and  in  which  he  recorded  his  winnings  by  sticking  his  jack-knife 
into  the  table — when  he  was  not  engaged  in  either  of  these  pursuits,  he  would 
ask  me  to  read  to  him — “ Foreign  language,  dear  boy !”  While  I complied,  he, 
not  comprehending  a single  word,  would  stand  before  the  fire  surveying  me  with 
the  air  of  an  Exhibitor,  and  I would  see  him,  between  the  fingers  of  the  hand  with 
which  I shaded  my  face,  appealing  in  dumb  show  to  the  furniture  to  take  notice 
of  my  proficiency.  The  imaginary  student  pursued  by  the  misshapen  creature  he 
had  impiously  made,  was  not  more  wretched  than  I,  pursued  by  the  creature  who 
had  made  me,  and  recoiling  from  him  with  a stronger  repulsion,  the  more  he 
admired  me  and  the  fonder  he  was  of  me. 

This  is  written  of,  I am  sensible,  as  if  it  had  lasted  a year.  It  lasted  about  five 
days.  Expecting  Herbert  all  the  time,  I dared  not  go  out,  except  when  I took 
Provis  for  an  airing  after  dark.  At  length,  one  evening  when  dinner  was  ovei 
and  I had  dropped  into  a slumber  quite  worn  out — for  my  nights  had  beeif 
agitated  and  my  rest  broken  by  fearful  dreams — I was  roused  by  the  welcome 
footstep  on  the  staircase.  Provis,  who  had  been  asleep  too,  staggered  up  at  th< 
noise  I made,  and  in  an  instant  I saw  his  jack-knife  shining  in  his  hand. 

“Quiet!  It’s  Herbert!”  I said;  and  Herbert  came  bursting  in,  with  the  airy 
freshness  of  six  hundred  miles  of  France  upon  him. 

“ Handel,  my  dear  fellow,  how  are  you,  and  again  how  are  you,  and  again  how 
are  you  ? I seem  to  have  been  gone  a twelvemonth  ! Why,  so  I must  have  been, 

for  you  have  grown  quite  thin  and  pale ! Handel,  my Halloa ! I beg  your 

pardon.” 

He  was  stopped  in  his  running  on  and  in  his  shaking  hands  with  me,  by  seeing 
Provis.  Provis,  regarding  him  with  a fixed  attention,  was  slowly  putting  up  his 
jack-knife,  and  groping  in  another  pocket  for  something  else. 

“ Herbert,  my  dear  friend,”  said  I,  shutting  the  double  doors,  while  Herbert 
stood  staring  and  wondering,  “ something  very  strange  has  happened.  This  is — 
a visitor  of  mine.” 

“it’s  all  right,  dear  boy  ! 99  said  Provis,  coming  forward,  with  his  little  clasped 
black  book,  and  then  addressing  himself  to  Herbert.  “Take  it  in  your  right 
hand.  Lord  strike  you  dead  on  the  spot,  if  ever  you  split  in  any  way  sumever. 
Kiss  it ! ” 

“ Do  so,  as  he  wishes  it,”  I said  to  Herbert.  So  Herbert,  looking  at  me  with 
a friendly  uneasiness  and  amazement,  complied,  and  Provis  immediately  shaking 
hands  with  him,  said,  “ Now,  you’re  on  your  oath,  you  know.  And  never  believe 
me  on  mire,  if  Pip  shan’t  make  a gentleman  on  you !” 


420 


Great  Expectations , 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

In  vain  should  I attempt  to  describe  the  astonishment  and  disquiet  of  Herbert, 
when  he  and  I and  Provis  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  I recounted  the  whole  of 
the  secret.  Enough  that  I saw  my  own  feelings  reflected  in  Herbert’s  face,  and, 
not  least  among  them,  my  repugnance  towards  the  man  who  had  done  so  much 
for  me. 

What  would  alone  have  set  a division  between  that  man  and  us,  if  there  had 
been  no  other  dividing  circumstance,  was  his  triumph  in  my  story.  Saving  his 
troublesome  sense  of  having  been  “ low  ” on  one  occasion  since  his  return — on 
which  point  he  began  to  hold  forth  to  Herbert,  the  moment  my  revelation  was 
finished — he  had  no  perception  of  the  possibility  of  my  finding  any  fault  with  my 
good  fortune.  His  boast  that  he  had  made  me  a gentleman,  and  that  he  had  come 
to  see  me  support  the  character  on  his  ample  resources,  was  made  for  me  quite  as 
much  as  for  himself.  And  that  it  was  a highly  agreeable  boast  to  both  of  us, 
and  that  we  must  both  be  very  proud  of  it,  was  a conclusion  quite  established  in 
his  own  mind. 

“ Though,  looldee  here,  Pip’s  comrade,”  he  said  to  Herbert,  after  having  dis- 
coursed for  some  time,  “ I know  very  well  that  once  since  I come  back — for  half 
a minute— I’ve  been  low.  I said  to  Pip,  I knowed  as  I had  been  low.  But  don’t 
you  fret  yourself  on  that  score.  I ain’t  made  Pip  a gentleman,  and  Pip  ain’t 
a-goin  to  make  you  a gentleman,  not  fur  me  not  to  know  what’s  due  to  ye  both. 
Dear  boy,  and  Pip’s  comrade,  you  two  may  count  upon  me  always  having  a gen- 
teel muzzle  on.  Muzzled  I have  been  since  that  half  a minute  when  I was 
betrayed  into  lowness,  muzzled  I am  at  the  present  time,  muzzled  I ever  will 
be.” 

Herbert  said,  “ Certainly,”  but  looked  as  if  there  were  no  specific  consolation  in 
this,  and  remained  perplexed  and  dismayed.  We  were  anxious  for  the  time  when 
he  would  go  to  his  lodging,  and  leave  us  together,  but  he  was  evidently  jealous  of 
leaving  us  together,  and  sat  late.  It  was  midnight  before  I took  him  round  to 
Essex-street.  and  saw  him  safely  in  at  his  own  dark  door.  When  it  closed  upon 
him,  I experienced  the  first  moment  of  relief  I had  known  since  the  night  of  his 
arrival. 

Never  quite  free  from  an  uneasy  remembrance  of  the  man  on  the  stairs,  I had 
always  looked  about  me  in  taking  my  guest  out  after  dark,  and  in  bringing  him 
back  ; and  I looked  about  me  now.  Difficult  as  it  is  in  a large  city  to  avoid  the 
suspicion  of  being  watched  when  the  mind  is  conscious  of  danger  in  that  regard, 
I could  not  persuade  myself  that  any  of  the  people  within  sight  cared  about  my 
movements.  The  few  who  were  passing,  passed  on  their  several  ways,  and  the 
street  was  empty  when  I turned  back  into  the  Temple.  Nobody  had  come  out  at 
the  gate  with  us,  nobody  went  in  at  the  gate  with  me.  As  I crossed  by  the 
fountain,  I saw  his  lighted  back  windows  looking  bright  and  quiet,  and,  when  I 
stood  for  a few  moments  in  the  doorway  of  the  building  where  I lived,  before 
going  up  the  stairs,  Garden-court  was  as  still  and  lifeless  as  the  staircase  was  when 
1 ascended  it. 

Herbert  received  me  with  open  arms,  and  I had  never  felt  before  so  blessedly, 
what  it  is  to  have  a friend.  When  he  had  spoken  some  sound  words  of  ^ym*- 
pathy  and  encouragement,  we  sat  down  to  consider  the  question,  What  was  to  be 
Jone  ? 

The  chair  that  Provis  had  occupied  still  remaining  where  it  had  stood — for  he 
kd  a barrack  way  with  him  of  hanging  about  one  spot,  in  one  unsettled  manner, 


Necessary  to  know  bis  History. 


42  r 


ttid  going  through  one  round  of  observances  with  his  pipe  and  his  negro-head  and 
his  jack-knife  and  his  pack  of  cards,  and  what  not,  as  if  it  were  all  put  down  for 
him  on  a slate — I say,  his  chair  remaining  where  it  had  stood,  Herbert  uncon- 
sciously took  it,  but  next  moment  started  out  of  it,  pushed  it  away,  and  took 
another.  He  had  no  occasion  to  say,  after  that,  that  he  had  conceived  an  aversion 
for  my  patron,  neither  had  I occasion  to  confess  my  own.  We  interchanged  that 
confidence  without  shaping  a syllable. 

“ What,”  said  I to  Herbert,  when  he  was  safe  in  another  chair,  “ what  is  to  be 
done  ? ” 

“ My  poor  dear  Handel,”  he  replied*,  holding  his  head,  “ I am  too  stunned  to 
think.” 

“ So  was  I,  Herbert,  when  the  blow  first  fell.  Still,  something  must  be  done. 
He  is  intent  upon  various  new  expenses — horses,  and  carriages,  and  lavish  appear- 
ances of  all  kinds.  He  must  be  stopped  somehow.” 

“You  mean  that  you  can’t  accept ” 

“ How  can  I ? ” I interposed,  as  Herbert  paused.  “ Think  of  him ! Look  at 
him ! ” 

An  involuntary  shudder  passed  over  both  of  us. 

“ Yet  I am  afraid  the  dreadful  truth  is,  Herbert,  that  he  is  attached  to  me, 
strongly  attached  to  me.  Was  there  ever  such  a fate ! ” 

“ My  poor  dear  Handel,”  Herbert  repeated. 

“Then,”  said  I,  “after  all,  stopping  short  here,  never  taking  another  penny 
from  him,  think  what  I owe  him  already  ! Then  again  : I am  heavily  in  debt- 
very  heavily  for  me,  who  have  now  no  expectations — and  I have  been  bred  to  no 
calling,  and  I am  fit  for  nothing.” 

“ Well,  well,  well ! ” Herbert  remonstrated.  “ Don’t  say  fit  for  nothing.” 

“ What  am  I fit  for  ? I know  only  one  thing  that  I am  fit  for,  and  that  is,  to 
go  for  a soldier.  And  I might  have  gone,  my  dear  Herbert,  but  for  the  prospect 
of  taking  counsel  with  your  friendship  and  affection.” 

Of  course  I broke  down  there ; and  of  course  Herbert,  beyond  seizing  a warm 
grip  of  my  hand,  pretended  not  to  know  it. 

“ Anyhow,  my  dear  Handel,”  said  he  presently,  “ soldiering  won’t  do.  If  you 
were  to  renounce  this  patronage  and  these  favours,  I suppose  you  would  do  so 
with  some  faint  hope  of  one  day  repaying  what  you  have  already  had.  Not  very 
strong,  that  hope,  if  you  went  soldiering.  Besides,  it’s  absurd.  You  would  be 
infinitely  better  in  Clarriker’s  house,  small  as  it  is.  I am  working  up  towards  a 
partnership,  you  know.” 

Poor  fellow ! He  little  suspected  with  whose  money. 

“ But  there  is  another  question,”  said  Herbert.  “This  is  an  ignorant  deter- 
mined man,  who  has  long  had  one  fixed  idea.  More  than  that,  he  seems  to  me 
(I  may  misjudge  him)  to  be  a man  of  a desperate  and  fierce  character.” 

“I  know  he  is,”  I returned.  “ Let  me  tell  you  what  evidence  I have  seen  of 
it.”  And  I told  him  what  I had  not  mentioned  in  my  narrative;  of  that  encounter 
with  the  other  convict. 

“ See,  then,”  said  Herbert ; “ think  of  this  ! He  comes  here  at  the  peril  of  his 
life,  for  the  realisation  of  his  fixed  idea.  In  the  moment  of  realisation,  after  all 
his  toil  and  waiting,  you  cut  the  ground  fronr  under  his  feet,  destroy  his  idea,  and 
make  his  gains  worthless  to  him.  Do  you  see  nothing  that  he  might  do  under 
the  disappointment  ? ” 

“ I have  seen  it,  Herbert,  and  dreamed  of  it  ever  since  the  fatal  night  of  his 
arrival.  Nothing  has  been  in  my  thoughts  so  distinctly  as  his  putting  himself  in 
the  way  of  being  taken.” 

(t  Th^n  you  may  rely  upon  it,”  said  Herbert,  “that  there  would  be  great  danger 


422 


Great  Expectation 


of  his  doing  it.  That  is  his  power  over  you  as  long  as  he  remains  in  England, 
and  that  would  be  his  reckless  course  if  you  forsook  him.” 

I was  so  struck  by  the  horror  of  this  idea,  which  had  weighed  upon  me  from  the 
first,  and  the  working  out  of  which  would  make  me  regard  myself,  in  some  sort, 
as  his  murderer,  that  I could  not  rest  in  my  chair,  but  began  pacing  to  and  fro. 
I said  to  Herbert,  meanwhile,  that  even  if  Provis  were  recognised  and  taken,  in 
spite  of  himself,  I should  be  wretched  as  the  cause,  however  innocently.  Yes ; 
even  though  I was  so  wretched  in  having  him  at  large  and  near  me,  and  even 
though  I would  far  rather  have  worked  at  the  forge  all  the  days  of  my  life  than  I 
would  ever  have  come  to  this  ! 

But  there  was  no  raving  off  the  question,  What  was  to  be  done  ? 

“The  first  and  the  main  thing  to  be  done,”  said  Herbert,  “is  to  get  him 
out  of  England.  You  will  have  to  go  with  him,  and  then  he  may  be  induced  to 

go-” 

“ But  get  him  where  I will,  could  I prevent  his  coming  back  ? ” 

“ My  good  Handel,  is  it  not  obvious  that  with  Newgate  in  the  next  street,  there 
must  be  far  greater  hazard  in  your  breaking  your  mind  to  him  and  making  him 
reckless,  here,  than  elsewhere.  If  a pretext  to  get  him  away  could  be  made  out 
of  that  other  convict,  or  out  of  anything  else  in  his  life,  now.” 

“ There  again  ! ” said  I,  stopping  before  Herbert,  with  my  open  hands  held  out, 
as  if  they  contained  the  desperation  of  the  case.  “ I know  nothing  of  his  life.  It 
has  almost  made  me  mad  to  sit  here  of  a night  and  see  him  before  me,  so  bound 
up  with  my  fortunes  and  misfortunes,  and  yet  so  unknown  to  me,  except  as  the 
miserable  wretch  who  terrified  me  two  days  in  my  childhood  ! ” 

Herbert  got  up,  and  linked  his  arm  in  mine,  and  we  slowly  walked  to  and  fro 
together,  studying  the  carpet. 

“ Handel,”  said  Herbert,  stopping,  “you  feel  convinced  that  you  can  take  no 
further  benefits  from  him  ; do  you  ? ” 

“ Fully.  Surely  you  would,  too,  if  you  were  in  my  place  ? ” 

“ And  you  feel  convinced  that  you  must  break  with  him  ? ” 

“ Herbert,  can  you  ask  me  ? ” 

“And  you  have,  and  are  bound  to  have,  that  tenderness  for  the  life  he  has 
risked  on  your  account,  that  you  must  save  him,  if  possible,  from  throwing  it  away. 
Then  you  must  get  him  out  of  England  before  you  stir  a finger  to  extricate  yourself. 
That  done,  extricate  yourself,  in  Heaven’s  name,  and  we’ll  see  it  out  together,  dear 
old  boy.” 

It  was  a comfort  to  shake  hands  upon  it,  and  walk  up  and  down  again,  with 
only  that  done. 

“ Now,  Herbert,”  said  I,  “ with  reference  to  gaining  some  knowledge  of  his 
history.  There  is  but  one  way  that  I know  of.  I must  ask  him  point-blank.” 
“Yes.  Ask  him,”  said  Herbert,  “when  we  sit  at  breakfast  in  the  morn- 
ing.” For,  he  had  said,  on  taking  leave  of  Herbert,  that  he  would  come  to  break- 
fast with  us. 

With  this  project  formed,  we  went  to  bed.  I had  the  wildest  dreams  concern- 
ing him,  and  woke  unrefreshed  ; I woke,  too,  to  recover  the  fear  which  I had  lost 
in  the  night,  of  his  being  found  out  as  a returned  transport.  Waking,  I never  lost 
that  fear. 

He  came  round  at  the  appointed  time,  took  out  his  jack-knife,  and  sat  down  to 
his  meal.  He  was  full  of  plans  “for  his  gentleman’s  coming  out  strong,  and  like 
a gentleman,”  and  urged  me  to  begin  speedily  upon  the  pocket-book,  which  he 
had  left  in  my  possession.  He  considered  the  chambers  and  his  own  lodging  as 
temporary  residences,  and  advised  me  to  look  out  at  once  fora  “fashionable  crib” 
near  Hyde  Park,  in  which  he  could  have  “ a shake-down.”  When  he  had  made 


Ht  relates  his  Life  and  Adventures . 423 

Mi  end  of  his  breakfast,  and  was  wiping  his  knife  on  his  leg,  I said  to  him,  without 
a word  of  preface  : 

“ After  you  were  gone  last  night,  I told  my  friend  of  the  struggle  that  the  sol- 
diers found  you  engaged  in  on  the  marshes,  when  we  came  up.  You  remember  ? ” 

“ Remember  ! ” said  he.  “ I think  so  !” 

“ We  want  to  know  something  about  that  man— and  about  you.  It  is  strange 
to  know  no  more  about  either,  and  particularly  you,  than  I was  able  to  tell  last 
night.  Is  not  this  as  good  a time  as  another  for  our  knowing  more  ? ” 

“Well!”  he  said,  after  consideration.  “You’re  on  your  oath,  you  know, 
Pip’s  comrade  ?” 

“Assuredly,”  replied  Herbert. 

“As  to  anything  I say,  you  know,”  he  insisted.  “ The  oath  applies  to  all.” 

“ I understand  it  to  do  so.” 

44  And  look’ee  here!  Wotever  I done,  is  worked  out  and  paid  for,”  he  insisted  again. 

“ So  be  it.” 

He  took  out  his  black  pipe  and  was  going  to  fill  it  with  negro-head,  when, 
looking  at  the  tangle  of  tobacco  in  his  hand,  he  seemed  to  think,  it  might  perplex 
'.he  thread  of  his  narrative.  He  put  it  back  again,  stuck  his  pipe  in  a button-hole  of 
his  coat,  spread  a hand  on  each  knee,  and,  after  turning  an  angry  eye  on  the  fire 
for  a few  silent  moments,  looked  around  at  us  and  said  what  follows. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

“ Dear  boy  and  Pip’s  comrade.  I am  not  a going  fur  to  tell  you  my  life,  like  a song 
or  a story-book.  But  to  give  it  you  short  and  handy,  I’ll  put  it  at  once  into  a 
mouthful  of  English.  In  jail  and  out  of  jail,  in  jail  and  out  of  jail,  in  jail  and  out 
of  jail.  There,  you’ve  got  it.  That’s  my  life  pretty  much,  down  to  such  times  as 
I got  shipped  off,  arter  Pip  stood  my  friend. 

“I’ve  been  done  everything  to,  pretty  well — except  hanged.  I’ve  been  locked 
up,  as  much  as  a silver  tea-kittle.  I’ve  been  carted  here  and  carted  there,  and  put 
out  of  this  town  and  put  out  of  that  town,  and  stuck  in  the  stocks,  and  whipped 
and  worried  and  drove.  I’ve  no  more  notion  where  I was  born,  than  you  have — 
if  so  much.  I first  become  aware  of  myself,  down  in  Essex,  a thieving  turnips  for 
my  living.  Summun  had  run  away  from  me — a man — a tinker — and  he’d  took 
the  fire  with  him,  and  left  me  wery  cold. 

“ I know’d  my  name  to  be  Magwitch,  chrisen’d  Abel.  How  did  I know  it  ? 
Much  as  I know’d  the  birds’  names  in  the  hedges  to  be  chaffinch,  sparrer,  thrush, 
x might  have  thought  it  was  all  lies  together,  only  as  the  birds’  names  come  out 
true,  I supposed  mine  did. 

“ So  fur  as  I could  find,  there  warn’t  a soul  that  see  young  Abel  Magwitch, 
with  as  little  on  him  as  in  him,  but  wot  caught  fright  at  him,  and  either  drove  him 
off,  or  took  him  up.  I was  took  up,  took  up,  took  up,  to  that  extent  that  I 
reg’larly  grow’d  up  took  up. 

“ This  is  the  way  it  was,  that  when  I was  a ragged  little  creetur  as  much  to  be 
pitied  as  ever  I see  (not  that  I looked  in  the  glass,  for  there  warn’t  many  insides 
of  furnished  houses  known  to  me),  I got  the  name  of  being  hardened.  ‘ This  is 
a terrible  hardened  one,’  they  says  to  prison  wisitors,  picking  out  me.  i May  be 
said  to  live  in  jails,  this  boy.’  Then  they  looked  at  me,  and  I looked  at  them, 
and  they  measured  my  head,  some  on  ’em — they  had  better  a measured  my  stomach 
—and  others  on  ’em  giv  me  tracts  what  I couldn’t  read,  and  made  '.nr  speeches 


424 


Great  Expectations . 


what  I couldn't  unnerstand.  They  always  went  on  agen  me  about  the  Dc. 

But  what  the  devil  was  I to  do?  I must  put  something  into  my  stomach,  mustn’t 
I ? — Howsomever,  I’m  a getting  low,  and  I know  what’s  due.  Dear  boy  and 
Pip’s  comrade,  don’t  you  be  afeerd  of  me  being  low. 

“ Tramping,  begging,  thieving,  working  sometimes  when  I could — though  that 
warn’t  as  often  as  you  may  think,  till  you  put  the  question  whether  you  -would 
ha’  been  over-ready  to  give  me  work  yourselves — a bit  of  a poacher,  a bit  of  a 
labourer,  a bit  of  a waggoner,  a bit  of  a haymaker,  a bit  of  a hawker,  a bit  of  most 
things  that  don’t  pay  and  lead  to  trouble,  I got  to  be  a man.  A deserting  soldier 
in  a Traveller’s  Rest,  what  lay  hid  up  to  the  chin  under  a lot  of  taturs,  learnt  me 
to  read  ; and  a travelling  Giant  what  signed  his  name  at  a penny  a time  learnt  me 
to  write.  I warn’t  locked  up  as  often  now  as  formerly,  but  I wore  out  my  good 
share  of  key-metal  still. 

‘ ‘ At  Epsom  races,  a matter  of  over  twenty  year  ago,  I got  acquainted  wi’  a 
man  whose  skull  I’d  crack  wi’  this  poker,  like  the  claw  of  a lobster,  if  I’d  got  it 
on  this  hob.  His  right  name  was  Compeyson  ; and  that’s  the  man,  dear  boy,  what 
you  see  me  a pounding  in  the  ditch,  according  to  what  you  truly  told  your  com- 
rade arter  I was  gone  last  night. 

“ He  set  up  fur  a gentleman,  this  Compeyson,  and  he’d  been  to  a public  boarding- 
school  and  had  learning.  He  was  a smooth  one  to  talk,  and  was  a dab  at  the  ways 
of  gentlefolks.  He  was  good-looking  too.  It  was  the  night  afore  the  great  race, 
when  I found  him  on  the  heath,  in  a booth  that  I know’d  on.  Him  and  some 
more  was  a sitting  among  the  tables  when  I went  in,  and  the  landlord  (which  had 
a knowledge  of  me,  and  was  a sporting  one)  called  him  out,  and  said,  ‘ 1 think  this 
is  a man  that  might  suit  you  ’ — meaning  I was. 

**  Compeyson,  he  looks  at  me  very  noticing,  and  I ’look  at  him.  He  has  a watch 
and  a chain  and  a ring  and  a breast-pin  and  a handsome  suit  of  clothes. 

“ ‘To  judge  from  appearances,  you’re  out  of  luck,’  says  Compeyson  to  me. 

“ ‘Yes,  master,  and  I’ve  never  been  in  it  much.’  (I  had  come  out  of  Kingston 
Jail  last  on  a vagrancy  committal.  Not  but  what  it  might  have  been  for  something 
else  ; but  it  wam’t.) 

“ ‘ Luck  changes,’  says  Compeyson  ; ‘ perhaps  yours  is  going  to  change/ 

I says,  ‘ I h pe  it  may  be  so.  There’s  room/ 

u ‘ What  can  you  do  ? ’ says  Compeyson. 

“ ‘ Eat  and  drink,’  I says  ; ‘if  you’ll  find  the  materials/ 

“ Compeyson  laughed,  looked  at  me  again  very  noticing,  giv  me  five  shillings, 
and  appointed  me  for  next  night.  Same  place. 

“ I went  to  Compeyson  next  night,  same  place,  and  Compeyson  took  me  on  to 
be  his  man  and  pardner.  And  what  was  Compeyson’s  business  in  which  we  was 
to  go  pardners  ? Compeyson’s  business  was  the  swindling,  handwriting  forging, 
stolen  bank-note  passing,  and  such-like.  All  sorts  of  traps  as  Compeyson  could 
set  with  his  head,  and  keep  his  own  legs  out  of  and  get  the  profits  from  and  let 
another  man  in  for,  was  Compeyson’s  business.  He’d  no  more  heart  than  a iron 
file,  he  was  as  cold  as  death,  and  he  had  the  head  of  the  Devil  afore  mentioned. 

“There  was  another  in  with  Compeyson,  as  was  called  Arthur — not  as  being  so 
chrisen’d,  but  as  a surname.  He  was  in  a Decline,  and  was  a shadow  to  look  at. 
Him  and  Compeyson  had  been  in  a bad  thing  with  a rich  lady  some  years  afore, 
and  they’d  made  a pot  of  money  by  it ; but  Compeyson  betted  and  gamed,  and 
he’d  have  run  through  the  king’s  taxes.  So,  Arthur  was  a dying  and  a dying  pool 
and  with  the  horrors  on  him,  and  Compeyson’s  wife  (which  Compeyson  kicked 
mostly)  was  a having  pity  on  him  when  she  could,  and  Compeyson  was  a having 
pity  on  nothing  and  nobody. 

“ I might  a took  warning  by  Arthur,  but  I didn’t ; and  I won’t  pretend  I w&' 


He  continues  bis  Narrative. 


425 


partick’ler— for  where  ’ud  be  the  good  on  it,  dear  boy  and  comrade  ? So  I begun 
wi’  Compevson,  and  a poor  tool  I was  in  his  hands.  Arthur  lived  at  the  top  of 
Compeyson’s  house  (over  nigh  Brentford  it  was),  and  Compeyson  kept  a careful 
account  agen  him  for  board  and  lodging,  in  case  he  should  ever  get  better  to  work 
it  out.  But  Arthur  soon  settled  the  account.  The  second  or  third  time  as  ever  I 
see  him,  he  come  a tearing  down  into  Compeyson’s  parlour  late  at  night,  in  only  a 
flannel  gown,  with  his  hair  all  in  a sweat,  and  he  says  to  Compeyson’s  wife,  ‘ Sally, 
she  really  is  up-stairs  alonger  me,  now,  and  I can’t  get  rid  of  her.  She’s  all  in 
white,’  he  says,  ‘ wi’  white  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  she’s  awful  mad,  and  she’s  got 
a shroud  hanging  over  her  arm,  and  she  says  she’ll  put  it  on  me  at  five  in  the 
morning.’ 

“ Says  Compeyson  : ‘ Why,  you  fool,  don’t  you  know  she’s  got  a living  body  ? 
And  how  should  she  be  up  there,  without  coming  through  the  door,  or  in  at  the 
window,  and  up  the  stairs  ? ’ 

“ ‘ I don’t  know  how  she’s  there,’  says  Arthur,  shivering  dreadful  with  the 
horrors,  ‘ but  she’s  standing  in  the  comer  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  awful  mad.  And 
over  where  her  heart’s  broke-  -you  broke  it ! — there’s  drops  of  blood.’ 

“ Compeyson  spoke  hardy,  but  he  was  always  a coward.  ‘ Go  up  alonger  this 
drivelling  sick  man,’  he  says  to  his  wife,  ‘and,  Magwitch,  lend  her  a hand,  will 
you  ? ’ But  he  never  come  nigh  himself. 

“ Compeyson’s  wife  and  me  took  him  up  to  bed  agen,  and  he  raved  most  dread- 
ful. ‘Why  look  at  her  !’  he  cries  out.  ‘ She’s  a shaking  the  shroud  at  me  ! Don’t 
you  see  her  ? Look  at  her  eyes  ! Ain’t  it  awful  to  see  her  so  mad  ? ’ Next,  he 
cries,  ‘ She’ll  put  it  on  me,  and  then  I’m  done  for ! Take  it  away  from  her,  take 
it  away  ! ’ And  then  he  catched  hold  of  us,  and  kep  on  a talking  to  her,  and 
answering  of  her,  till  I half-believed  I see  her  myself. 

“ Compeyson’s  wife,  being  used  to  him,  give  him  some  liquor  to  get  the  horrors 
off,  and  by-and-by  he  quieted.  ‘ Oh,  she’s  gone  ! Has  her  keeper  been  for  her  ? ’ 
he  says.  ‘ Yes,’  says  Compeyson’s  wife.  ‘ Did  you  tell  him  to  lock  and  bar  her 
in  ? ’ ‘ Yes.’  ‘ And  to  take  that  ugly  thing  away  from  her  ? ’ ‘ Yes,  yes,  all  right.’ 
‘You’re  a good  creetur,’  he  says,  ‘don’t  leave  me,  whatever  you  do,  and  thank  you  ! ’ 

“ He  rested  pretty  quiet  till  it  might  want  a few  minutes  of  five,  and  then  he 
starts  up  with  a scream,  and  screams  out,  ‘ Here  she  is ! She’s  got  the  shroud 
again.  She’s  unfolding  it.  She’s  coming  out  of  the  corner.  She’s  coming  to  the 
bed.  Hold  me,  both  on  you — one  of  each  side — don’t  let  her  touch  me  with  it. 
Hah  ! She  missed  me  that  time.  Don’t  let  her  throw  it  over  my  shoulders.  Don’t 
let  her  lift  me  up  to  get  it  round  me.  She’s  lifting  me  up.  Keep  me  down  ! * 
Then  he  lifted  himself  up  hard,  and  was  dead. 

“ Compeyson  took  it  easy  as  a good  riddance  for  both  sides.  Him  and  me  was 
soon  busy,  and  first  he  swore  me  (being  ever  artful)  on  my  own  book — this  here 
little  black  book,  dear  boy,  what  I swore  your  comrade  on. 

“Not  to  go  into  the  things  that  Compeyson  planned,  and  I done — which  ’ud 
take  a week — I’ll  simply  say  to  you,  dear  boy,  and  Pip’s  comrade,  that  that  man 
got  me  into  such  nets  as  made  me  his  black  slave.  I was  always  in  debt  to  him, 
always  under  his  thumb,  always  a working,  always  a getting  into  danger.  He  was 
younger  than  me,  but  he’d  got  craft,  and  he’d  got  learning,  and  he  overmatched 
me  five  hundred  times  told  and  no  mercy.  My  Missis  as  I had  the  hard  time  wi’ 
• Stop  though  ! I ain’t  brought  her  in ” 

H e looked  .about  him  in  a confused  way,  as  if  he  had  lost  his  place  in  the  booh 
of  his  remembrance ; and  he  turned  his  face  to  the  fire,  and  spread  his  hands 
broader  on  his  knees,  and  lifted  them  off  and  put  them  on  again. 

“ There  ain’t  no  need  to  go  into  it,”  he  said,  looking  round  once  more.  “ Tin 
time  wi’  Compeyson  was  a’most  as  hard  a time  as  ever  I had  ; that  said,  all’s  saii 


4 26  Great  Expectations . 

Did  I tell  you  as  I was  tried,  alone,  for  misdemeanour,  while  with  Compeyson  ? ** 

I answered,  No. 

“ Well ! ” he  said,  “ I was,  and  got  convicted.  As  to  took  up  on  suspicion,  that 
was  twic  e or  three  times  in  the  four  or  five  year  that  it  lasted  ; but  evidence  was 
wanting.  At  last,  me  and  Compeyson  was  both  committed  for  felony — on  a 
charge  of  putting  stolen  notes  in  circulation — and  there  was  other  charges  behind. 
Compeyson  says  to  me,  * Separate  defences,  no  communication,’  and  that  was  all. 
And  I w^s  so  miserable  poor,  that  I sold  all  the  clothes  I had,  except  what  hung 
on  my  back,  afore  I could  get  Jaggers. 

“When  we  was  put  in  the  dock,  I noticed  first  of  all  what  a gentleman  Compeyson 
looked,  wi’  his  curly  hair  and  his  black  clothes  and  his  white  pocket-handkercher, 
and  what  a common  sort  of  a wretch  I looked.  When  the  prosecution  opened  and 
the  evidence  was  put  short,  aforehand,  I noticed  how  heavy  it  all  bore  on  me,  and 
how  light  on  him.  When  the  evidence  was  giv  in  the  box,  I noticed  how  it  was 
always  me  that  had  come  for’ard,  and  could  be  swore  to,  how  it  was  always  me 
that  the  money  had  been  paid  to,  how  it  was  always  me  that  had  seemed  to  work 
the  thing  and  get  the  profit.  But,  when  the  defence  come  on,  then  I see  the  plan 
plainer  ; for,  says  the  counsellor  for  Compeyson,  ‘My  lord  and  gentlemen,  here 
you  has  afore  you,  side  by  side,  two  persons  as  your  eyes  can  separate  wide  ; one, 
the  younger,  well  brought  up,  who  will  be  spoke  to  as  such  ; one,  the  elder,  ill 
brought  up,  who  will  be  spoke  to  as  such  ; one,  the  younger,  seldom  if  ever  seen 
in  these  here  transactions,  and  only  suspected  ; t’other,  the  elder,  always  seen  in 
’em  and  always  wi’  his  guilt  brought  home.  Can  you  doubt,  if  there  is  but  one  in 
it,  which  is  the  one,  and  if  there  is  two  in  it,  which  is  much  the  worst  one  ?’  And 
such-like.  And  when  it  come  to  character,  warn’t  it  Compeyson  as  had  been  to 
school,  and  warn’t  it  his  schoolfellows  as  was  in  this  position  and  in  that,  and  warn’t 
it  him  as  had  been  know’d  by  witnesses  in  such  clubs  and  societies,  and  nowt  to  his 
disadvantage  ? And  warn’t  it  me  as  had  been  tried  afore,  and  as  had  been  know’d 
up  hill  and  down  dale  in  Bridewells  and  Lock-Ups  ? And  when  it  come  to  speech- 
making, warn’t  it  Compeyson  as  could  speak  to  ’em  wi’  his  face  dropping  every 
now  and  then  into  his  white  pocket-handkercher — ah  ! and  wi’  verses  in  his  speech, 
too — and  warn’t  it  me  as  could  only  say,  ‘ Gentlemen,  this  man  at  my  side  is  a 
most  precious  rascal  ’ ? And  when  the  verdict  come,  warn’t  it  Compeyson  as  was 
recommended  to  mercy  on  account  of  good  character  and  bad  company,  and  giving 
up  all  the  information  he  could  agen  me,  and  warn’t  it  me  as  got  never  a word  but 
Guilty  ? And  when  I says  to  Compeyson,  ‘ Once  out  of  this  court,  I’ll  smash  that 
face  of  yourn  ! ’ ain’t  it  Compeyson  as  prays  the  Judge  to  be  protected,  and  gets 
two  turnkeys  stood  betwixt  us  ? And  when  we’re  sentenced,  ain’t  it  him  as  gets 
seven  year,  and  me  fourteen,  and  ain’t  it  him  as  the  Judge  is  sony  for,  because  he 
might  a done  so  well,  and  ain’t  it  me  as  the  Judge  perceives  to  be  a old  offender 
of  wiolent  passion,  likely  to  come  to  worse  ? ” 

He  had  worked  himself  into  a state  of  great  excitement,  but  he  checked  it,  took 
two  or  three  short  breaths,  swallowed  as  often,  and  stretching  out  his  hand  towards 
me,  said,  in  a reassuring  manner,  <£  I ain’t  a going  to  be  low,  dear  boy  ! ” 

He  had  so  heated  himself  that  he  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face 
and  head  and  neck  and  hands,  before  he  could  go  on. 

“ I had  said  to  Compeyson  that  I’d  smash  that  face  of  his,  and  I swore  Lord 
smash  mine  ! to  do  it.  We  was  in  the  same  prison-ship,  but  I couldn’t  get  at  him 
for  long,  though  I tried.  At  last  I come  behind  him  and  hit  him  on  the  cheek  to 
turn  him  round  and  get  a smashing  one  at  him,  when  I was  seen  and  seized.  The 
black  hole  of  that  ship  warn’t  a strong  one,  to  a judge  of  black-holes  that  could 
Bwim  and  dive.  I escaped  to  the  shore,  and  I was  a hiding  among  the  graves 
there,  envying  them  as  was  in  ’em  and  all  over,  when  I first  see  my  boy ! ” 


The  end  of  the  Narrative . 427 

He  regarded  me  with  a look  of  affection  that  made  him  almost  abhorrent  to  me 
again,  though  1 had  felt  great  pity  for  him. 

“ Bv  my  boy,  I was  giv  to  understand  as  Compeyson  was  out  on  them  marshes 
too.  'Upon  my  soul,  I half  believe  he  escaped  in  his  terror,  to  get  quit  of  me,  not 
knowing  it  was  me  as  had  got  ashore.  1 hunted  him  down.  I smashed  his  face. 
‘ And  now,’  says  I,  ‘as  the  worst  thing  I can  do,  caring  nothing  for  myself,  I’ll 
drag  you  back.’  And  I’d  have  swum  off,  towing  him  by  the  hair,  if  it  had  come 
to  that,  and  I’d  a got  him  aboard  without  the  soldiers. 

“ Of  course  he’d  much  the  best  of  it  to  the  last — his  character  was  so  good.  He 
had  escaped  when  he  was  made  half-wild  by  me  and  my  murderous  intentions ; 
and  his  punishment  was  light.  I was  put  in  irons,  brought  to  trial  again,  and  sent 
for  life.  I didn’t  stop  for  life,  dear  boy  and  Pip’s  comrade,  being  here.” 

He  wiped  himself  again,  as  he  had  done  before,  and  then  slowly  took  his  tangle 
of  tobacco  from  his  pocket,  and  plucked  his  pipe  from  his  button-hole,  and  slowly 
filled  it,  and  began  to  smoke. 

“ Is  he  dead  ? ” I asked  after  a silence. 

“ Is  who  dead,  dear  boy  ? ” 

“ Compeyson.” 

“ He  hopes  / am,  if  he’s  alive,  you  may  be  sure,”  with  a fierce  look.  “ I never 
heard  no  more  of  him.” 

Herbert  had  been  writing  with  his  pencil  in  the  cover  of  a book.  He  softly 
pushed  the  book  over  to  me,  as  Provis  stood  smoking  with  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  and 
I read  in  it : 

‘‘  Young  Havisham’s  name  was  Arthur.  Compeyson  is  the  man  who  professed  to  be  M10* 
Havisham’s  lover.” 

I shut  the  book  and  nodded  slightly  to  Herbert,  and  put  the  book  by  ; but  we 
neither  of  us  said  anything,  and  both  looked  at  Provis  as  he  stood  smoking  by  the 

fire. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Why  should  I pause  to  ask  how  much  of  my  shrinking  from  Provis  might  be 
traced  to  Estella  ? Why  should  I loiter  on  my  road,  to  compare  the  state  of  mind 
in  which  I had  tried  to  rid  myself  of  the  stain  of  the  prison  before  meeting  her  at 
the  coach-office,  with  the  state  of  mind  in  which  I now  reflected  on  the  abyss 
between  Estella  in  her  pride  and  beauty,  and  the  returned  transport  whom  I har- 
boured ? The  road  would  be  none  the  smoother  for  it,  the  end  would  be  none 
the  better  for  it ; he  would  not  be  helped,  nor  I extenuated. 

A new  fear  had  been  engendered  in  my  mind  by  his  narrative  ; or  rather,  his 
nairative  had  given  form  and  purpose  to  the  fear  that  was  already  there.  If 
Compeyson  were  alive  and  should  discover  his  return,  I could  hardly  doubt  the 
consequence.  That  Compeyson  stood  in  mortal  fear  of  him,  neither  of  the  two 
could  know  much  better  than  I ; and  that  any  such  man  as  that  man  had  been 
described  to  be,  would  hesitate  to  release  himself  for  good  from  a dreaded  enemy 
by  the  safe  means  of  becoming  an  informer,  was  scarcely  to  be  imagined. 

Never  had  I breathed,  and  never  would  I breathe — or  so  I resolved — a word  of 
Estella  to  Provis.  But,  I said  to  Herbert  that  before  I could  go  abroad,  I must 
see  both  Estella  and  Miss  Plavisham.  This  was  when  we  were  left  alone  on  the 
night  of  the  day  when  Provis  told  us  his  story.  I resolved  to  go  out  to  Richmond 
next  day,  and  1 went. 


42 8 


Great  Expectations , 


On  my  presenting  myself  at  Mrs.  Brandley’s,  Estella’s  maid  was  called  to  tell 
me  that  Estella  had  gone  into  the  country.  Where  ? To  Satis  House,  as  usual. 
Not  as  usual,  I said,  for  she  had  never  yet  gone  there  without  me  ; when  was  she 
coming  back  ? There  was  an  air  of  reservation  in  the  answer  which  increased  my 
perplexity,  and  the  answer  was  that  her  maid  believed  she  was  only  coming  back 
at  all  for  a little  while.  I could  make  nothing  of  this,  except  that  it  was  meant 
that  I should  make  nothing  of  it,  and  I went  home  again  in  complete  discomfiture. 

Another  night-consultation  with  Herbert  after  Provis  was  gone  home  (I  always 
took  him  home,  and  always  looked  well  about  me),  led  us  to  the  conclusion  that 
nothing  should  be  said  about  going  abroad  until  I came  back  from  Miss  Havis- 
hanTs.  In  the  meantime  Herbert  and  I were  to  consider  separately  what  it  would 
be  best  to  say ; whether  we  should  devise  any  pretence  of  being  afraid  that  he 
was  under  suspicious  observation  ; or  whether  I,  who  had  never  yet  been  abroad, 
should  propose  an  expedition.  We  both  knew  that  I had  but  to  propose  anything, 
and  he  would  consent.  We  agreed  that  his  remaining  many  days  in  his  present 
hazard  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Next  day,  I had  the  meanness  to  feign  that  I v as  under  a binding  promise  to  go 
down  to  Joe  ; but  I was  capable  of  almost  any  meanness  towards  Joe  or  his  name. 
Provis  was  to  be  strictly  careful  while  I was  gone,  and  Herbert  was  to  take  the 
charge  of  him  that  I had  taken,  I was  to  be  absent  only  one  night,  and,  on  my 
return,  the  gratification  of  his  impatience  for  my  starting  as  a gentleman  on  a 
greater  scale,  was  to  be  begun.  It  occurred  to  me  then,  and  as  I afterwards  found 
to  Herbert  also,  that  he  might  be  best  got  away  across  the  water,  on  that  pretence 
— as,  to  make  purchases,  or  the  like. 

Having  thus  cleared  the  way  for  my  expedition  to  Miss  Havisham’s,  I set  off  by 
the  early  morning  coach  before  it  was  yet  light,  and  was  out  in  the  open  country 
road  when  the  day  came  creeping  on,  halting  and  whimpering  and  shivering,  ana 
wrapped  in  patches  of  cloud  and  rags  of  mist,  like  a beggar.  When  we  drove 
up  to  the  Blue  Boar  after  a drizzly  ride,  whom  should  I see  come  out  under  the 
gateway,  toothpick  in  hand,  to  look  at  the  coach,  but  Bentley  Drummle  ! 

As  he  pretended  not  to  see  me,  I pretended  not  to  see  him.  It  was  a very  lame 
pretence  on  both  sides  ; the  lamer,  because  we  both  went  into  the  coffee-room, 
where  he  had  just  finished  his  breakfast,  and  where  I had  ordered  mine.  It  was 
poisonous  to  me  to  see  him  in  the’  town,  for  I very  well  knew  why  he  had  come  there. 

Pretending  to  read  a smeary  newspaper  long  out  of  date,  which  had  nothing  half 
so  legible  in  its  local  news,  as  the  foreign  matter  of  coffee,  pickles,  fish-sauces, 
gravy,  melted  butter,  and  wine,  with  which  it  was  sprinkled  all  over,  as  if  it  had 
taken  the  measles  in  a highly  irregular  form,  I sat  at  my  table  while  he  stood 
before  the  fire.  By  degrees  it  became  an  enormous  injury  to  me  that  he  stood 
before  the  fire.  And  I got  up,  determined  to  have  my  share  of  it.  I had  to  put 
my  hands  behind  his  legs  for  the  poker  when  I went  up  to  the  fire-place  to  stir  the 
fire,  but  still  pretended  not  to  know  him. 

“ Is  this  a cut  ?”  said  Mr.  Drummle 

“ Oh  ?”  said  I,  poker  in  hand  ; “ it’s  you,  is  it  ? How  do  you  do  ? I was  won- 
dering who  it  was,  who  kept  the  fire  off.” 

With  that  I poked  tremendously,  and  having  done  so,  planted  myself  side  by 
side  with  Mr.  Drummle,  my  shoulders  squared,  and  my  back  to  the  fire. 

“ You  have  just  come  down  ?”  said  Mr.  Drummle,  edging  me  a little  away  witli 
fiis  shoulder. 

‘‘Yes,”  said  I,  edging  him  a little  away  with  my  shoulder. 

“ Beastly  place,”  said  Drummle — “ Your  part  of  the  country,  I think  ?” 

“ Yes,”  I assented.  “ I am  told  it’s  very  like  your  Shropshire.” 

**  Not  in  the  least  like  it,”  said  Drummle. 


I encounter  Drummle . 


429 

Here  Mr.  Drummle  looked  at  his  boots  and  I looked  at  mine,  and  then  Mr. 
E zummle  looked  at  my  boots  and  I looked  at  his. 

“ Have  you  been  here  long  ?”  I asked,  determined  not  to  yield  an  inch  of  the 

fire. 

“ Long  enough  to  be  tired  of  it,”  returned  Drummle,  pretending  to  yawn,  but 
equally  determined. 

“Do  you  stay  here  long ?” 

“ Can’t  say,”  answered  Mr.  Drummle.  “ Do  you  ?” 

“ Can’t  say,”  said  I. 

I felt  here,  through  a tingling  in  my  blood,  that  if  Mr.  Drummle’s  shoulder  had 
claimed  another  hair’s  breadth  of  room,  I should  have  jerked  him  into  the  window; 
equally,  that  if  my  shoulder  had  urged  a similar  claim,  Mr.  Drummle  would  have 
jerked  me  into  the  nearest  box.  He  whistled  a little.  So  did  I. 

“ Large  tract  of  marshes  about  here,  I believe  ?”  said  Drummle. 

“ Yes.  What  of  that  ?”  said  I. 

Mr.  Drummle  looked  at  me,  and  then  at  my  boots,  and  then  said,  “ Oh  !”  and 
laughed. 

“ Are  you  amused,  Mr.  Drummle  ?” 

“ No,”  said  he,  “ not  particularly.  I am  going  out  for  a ride  in  the  saddle.  I 
mean  to  explore  those  marshes  for  amusement.  Out-of-the-way  villages  there, 
they  tell  me.  Curious  little  public-houses — and  smithies — and  that.  Waiter  !” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Is  that  horse  of  mine  ready  ?” 

“ Brought  round  to  the  door,  sir.” 

“ I say.  Look  here,  you  sir.  The  lady  won’t  ride  to-day  ; the  weather  won’t 
<W’ 

“ Very  good,  sir.” 

“ And  I don’t  dine,  because  I am  going  to  dine  at  the  lady’s.” 

“Very  good,  sir.” 

Then,  Drummle  glanced  at  me,  with  an  insolent  triumph  on  his  great-jowled 
face  that  cut  me  to  the  heart,  dull  as  he  was,  and  so  exasperated  me,  that  I felt 
inclined  to  take  him  in  my  arms  (as  the  robber  in  the  story-book  is  said  to  have 
taken  the  old  lady)  and  seat  him  on  the  fire. 

One  thing  was  manifest  to  both  of  us,  and  that  was,  that  until  relief  came, 
neither  of  us  could  relinquish  the  fire.  There  we  stood,  well  squared  up  before  it, 
shoulder  to  shoulder  and  foot  to  foot,  with  our  hands  behind  us,  not  budging  an 
inch.  The  horse  was  visible  outside  in  the  drizzle  at  the  door,  my  breakfast  was 
put  on  table,  Drummle’s  was  cleared  away,  the  waiter  invited  me  to  begin,  I 
nodded,  we  both  stood  our  ground. 

“ Have  you  been  to  the  Grove  since  ?”  said  Drummle. 

“ No,”  said  I,  “ I had  quite  enough  of  the  Finches  the  last  time  I was  there.” 

“ Was  that  when  we  had  a difference  of  opinion  ?” 

“ Yes,”  I replied,  very  shortly. 

“Come,  come!  they  let  you  off  easily  enough,”  sneered  Drummle.  “You 
shouldn’t  have  lost  your  temper.” 

“ Mr.  Drummle,”  said  I,  “ you  are  not  competent  to  give  advice  on  that  subject. 
When  I lose  my  temper  (not  that  I admit  having  done  so  on  that  occasion),  1 
don’t  throw  glasses.” 

“ I do,”  said  Drummle. 

After  glancing  at  him  once  or  twice,  in  an  increased  state  of  smouldering  ferocity^ 
I said : 

“ Mr.  Drummle,  I did  not  seek  this  conversation,  and  I don’t  think  it’?  an 
agreeable  one.” 


43° 


Great  Expectations • 


“ I am  sure  it’s  not,”  said  he,  superciliously  over  his  shoulder*  “ I don’t  thinfc 

anything  about  it.” 

“And  therefore,”  I went  on,  “ with  your  leave,  I will  suggest  that  we  hold  no 
kind  of  communication  in  future.” 

“Quite  my  opinion,”  said  Drummle,  “and  what  I should  have  suggested 
myseJf,  or  done — more  likely — without  suggesting.  But  don’t  lose  your  temper. 
Haven’t  you  lost  enough  without  that  ? * 

“ What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?” 

“ Waiter,”  said  Drummle,  by  way  of  answering  me. 

The  waiter  reappeared. 

“ Look  here,  you  sir.  You  quite  understand  that  the  young  lady  don’t  ride 
to-day,  and  that  I dine  at  the  young  lady’s  ?” 

“ Quite  so,  sir  !” 

"When  the  waiter  had  felt  my  fast  cooling  tea-pot  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
had  looked  imploringly  at  me,  and  had  gone  out,  Drummle,  careful  not  to  move  the 
shoulder  next  me,  took  a cigar  from  his  pocket  and  bit  the  end  off,  but  showed  no 
sign  of  stirring.  Choking  and  boiling  as  I was,  I felt  that  we  could  not  go  a word 
further,  without  introducing  Estella’s  name,  which  I could  not  endure  to  hear  him 
utter ; and  therefore  I looked  stonily  at  the  opposite  wall,  as  if  there  were  no  one 
present,  and  forced  myself  to  silence.  How  long  we  might  have  remained  in  this 
ridiculous  position  it  is  impossible  to  say,  but  for  the  incursion  of  three  thriving 
farmers — laid  on  by  the  waiter,  I think — who  came  into  the  coffee-room  unbut- 
toning their  great-coats  and  rubbing  their  hands,  and  before  whom,  as  they  charged 
at  the  fire,  we  were  obliged  to  give  way. 

I saw  him  through  the  window,  seizing  his  horse’s  mane,  and  mounting  in  his 
blundering  brutal  manner,  and  sidling  and  backing  away.  I thought  he  was  gone, 
when  he  came  back,  calling  for  a light  for  the  cigar  in  his  mouth,  which  he  had 
forgotten.  A man  in  a dust-coloured  dress  appeared  with  what  was  wanted — I 
could  not  have  said  from  where : whether  from  the  inn  yard,  or  the  street,  or 
where  not — and  as  Drummle  leaned  down  from  the  saddle  and  lighted  his  cigar 
and  laughed,  with  a jerk  of  his  head  towards  the  coffee-room  windows,  the  slouch- 
ing shoulders,  and  ragged  hair,  of  this  man,  whose  back  was  towards  me,  reminded 
me  of  Orlick. 

Too  heavily  out  of  sorts  to  care  much  at  the  time  whether  it  were  he  or  no,  or 
after  all  to  touch  the  breakfast,  I washed  the  weather  and  the  journey  from  my  face 
and  hands,  and  went  out  to  the  memorable  old  house  that  it  would  have  been  so 
much  the  better  for  me  never  to  have  entered,  never  to  have  seen. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

In  the  room  where  the  dressing-table  stood,  and  where  the  wax  candles  burnt  on 
the  wall,  I found  Miss  Havisham  and  Estella ; Miss  Havisham  seated  on  a settee 
near  the  fire,  and  Estella  on  a cushion  at  her  feet.  Estella  was  knitting,  and  Miss 
Havisham  was  looking  on.  They  both  raised  their  eyes  as  I went  in,  and  both 
saw  an  alteration  in  me.  I derived  that,  from  the  look  they  interchanged. 

“ And  what  wind,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  “blows  you  here,  Pip  ?” 

Though  she  looked  steadily  at  me,  I saw  that  she  was  rather  confused.  Estella, 
pausing  a moment  in  her  knitting  with  her  eyes  upon  me,  and  then  going  on,  1 
fancied  that  I read  in  the  action  of  her  fingers,  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  told  me  in 
Kt  ? dumb  alphabet,  that  she  perceived  I had  discovered  my  real  benefactor. 


43* 


I speak  to  Miss  Ha vi sham  and  E Stella, 

“Miss  Havisham,”  said  I,  “I  went  to  Richmond  yesterday,  to  speak  to  Estella; 
and  finding  that  some  wind  had  blown  her  here,  I followed.” 

Miss  Havisham  motioning  to  me  for  the  third  or  fourth  time  to  sit  down,  I took 
the  chair  by  the  dressing-table,  which  I had  often  seen  her  occupy.  With  all  that 
ruin  at  my  feet  and  about  me,  it  seemed  a natural  place  foi*me,  that  day. 

“*What  I had  to  say  to  Estella,  Miss  Havisham,  I will  say  before  you,  pre- 
sently— in  a few  moments.  It  will  not  surprise  you,  it  will  not  displease  you.  I 
am  as  unhappy  as  you  can  ever  have  meant  me  to  be.” 

Miss  Havisham  continued  to  look  steadily  at  me.  I could  see  in  the  action  of 
Estella’s  fingers  as  they  worked,  that  she  attended  to  what  I said  : but  she  did  not 
look  up. 

“ I have  found  out  who  my  patron  is.  It  is  not  a fortunate  discovery,  and  is  not 
likely  ever  to  enrich  me  in  reputation,  station,  fortune,  anything.  There  are 
reasons  why  I must  say  no  more  of  that.  It  is  not  my  secret,  but  another’s.” 

As  I was  silent  for  a while,  looking  at  Estella  and  considering  how  to  go  on, 
Miss  Havisham  repeated,  “ It  is  not  your  secret,  but  another’s.  Well  ?” 

“When  you  first  caused  me  to  be  brought  here,  Miss  Havisham;  when  I 
belonged  to  the  village  over  yonder,  that  I wish  I had  never  lett ; I suppose  1 did 
really  come  here,  as  any  other  chance  boy  might  have  come — as  a kind  of  servant, 
to  gratify  a want  or  a whim,  and  to  be  paid  for  it  ?” 

“ Ay,  Pip,”  replied  Miss  Havisham,  steadily  nodding  her  head ; “ you  did.” 

“ And  that  Mr.  Jaggers ” 

“Mr.  Jaggers,”  said  Miss  Havisham,  taking  me  up  in  a firm  tone,  “had 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  knew  nothing  of  it.  His  being  my  lawyer,  and  his 
being  the  lawyer  of  your  patron,  is  a coincidence.  He  holds  the  same  relation 
towards  numbers  of  people,  and  it  might  easily  arise.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  did 
arise,  and  was  not  brought  about  by  any  one.” 

Any  one  might  have  seen  in  her  haggard  face  that  there  was  no  suppression 
or  evasion  so  far. 

“ But  when  I fell  into  the  mistake  I have  so  long  remained  in,  at  least  you  led 
me  on  ?”  said  I. 

“ Yes,”  she  returned,  again  nodding  steadily,  “ I let  you  go  on.” 

“ Was  that  kind  ?” 

“ Who  am  I,”  cried  Miss  Havisham,  striking  her  stick  upon  the  floor  and 
flashing  into  wrath  so  suddenly  that  Estella  glanced  up  at  her  in  surprise,  “who 
am  I,  for  God’s  sake,  that  I should  be  kind  ?” 

It  was  a weak  complaint  to  have  made,  and  I had  not  meant  to  make  it.  I told 
her  so,  as  she  sat  brooding  over  this  outburst. 

“ Well,  well,  well!”  she  said.  “What  else  ?” 

“I  was  liberally  paid  for  my  old  attendance  here,”  I said,  to  soothe  her,  “in 
being  apprenticed,  and  I have  asked  these  questions  only  for  my  own  information. 
What  follows  has  another  (and  I hope  more  disinterested)  purpose.  In  humouring 
my  mistake,  Miss  Havisham,  you  punished — practised  on— perhaps  you  will  sup- 
ply whatever  term  expresses  your  intention,  without  offence — your  self-seeking 
relations?” 

“ I did.  Why,  they  would  have  it  so  ! So  would  you.  What  has  been  my 
history,  that  I should  be  at  the  pains  of  entreating  either  them  or  you  not  to  have 
it  so  ! You  made  your  own  snares,  /never  made  them.” 

Waiting  until  she  was  quiet  again — for  this,  too,  flashed  out  of  her  in  a wild  and 
sudden  way — I went  on. 

“ I have  been  thrown  among  one  family  of  your  relations,  Miss  Havisham,  and 
have  been  constantly  among  them  since  I went  to  London.  I know  them  to  have 
been  as  honestl)  under  my  delusion  as  I myself.  And  I should  be  false  and  base  if 


432 


Great  Expectations . 


I did  not  tell  you,  whether  it  is  acceptable  to  you  or  no,  and  whether  you  are 
inclined  to  give  credence  to  it  or  no,  that  you  deeply  wrong  both  Mr.  Matthew 
Pocket  and  his  son  Herbert,  if  you  suppose  them  to  be  otherwise  than  generous, 
upright,  open,  and  incapable  of  anything  designing  or  mean.” 

“ They  are  your  frieims,”  said  Miss  Havisham. 

“ They  made  themselves  my  friends,”  said  I,  “ when  they  supposed  me  to  have 
superseded  them  ; and  when  Sarah  Pocket,  Miss  Georgiana,  and  Mistress  Camilla, 
were  not  my  friends,  I think.” 

This  contrasting  of  them  with  the  rest  seemed,  I was  glad  to  see,  to  do  them 
good  with  her.  She  looked  at  me  keenly  for  a little  while,  and  then  said  quietly : 

“ What  do  you  want  for  them  ?” 

“ Only,”  said  I,  “ that  you  would  not  confound  them  with  the  others.  They  may 
of  the  same  blood,  but,  believe  me,  they  are  not  of  the  same  nature.” 

Still  looking  at  me  keenly,  Miss  Havisham  repeated  : 

“What  do  you  want  for  them  ?” 

“I  am  not  so  cunning,  you  see,”  I said  in  answer,  conscious  that  I reddened  a 
little,  “as  that  I could  hide  from  you,  even  if  I desired,  that  I do  want  something. 
Miss  Havisham,  if  you  could  spare  the  money  to  do  my  friend  Herbert  a lasting 
service  in  life,  but  which  from  the  nature  of  the  case  must  be  done  without  his 
knowledge,  I could  show  you  how.” 

“ Why  must  it  be  done  without  his  knowledge  ?”  she  asked,  settling  her  hands 
upon  her  stick,  that  she  might  regard  me  the  more  attentively. 

“Because,”  said  I,  “ I began  the  service  myself,  more  than  two  years  ago,  with- 
out his  knowledge,  and  I don’t  want  to  be  betrayed.  Why  I fail  in  my  ability  to 
finish  it,  I cannot  explain.  It  is  a part  of  the  secret  which  is  another  person’s  and 
not  mine.” 

She  gradually  withdrew  her  eyes  from  me,  and  turned  them  on  the  fire.  After 
watching  it  for  what  appeared  in  the  silence  and  by  the  light  of  the  slowly  wasting 
candles  to  be  a long  time,  she  was  roused  by  the  collapse  of  some  of  the  red  coals, 
and  looked  towards  me  again — at  first,  vacantly — then,  with  a gradually  concen- 
trating attention.  All  this  time,  Estella  knitted  on.  When  Miss  Havisham  had 
fixed  her  attention  on  me,  she  said,  speaking  as  if  there  had  been  no  lapse  in  our 
dialogue  : 

“ What  else  ?” 

“Estella,”  said  I,  turning  to  her  now,  and  trying  to  command  my  trembling 
voice,  “ you  know  I love  you.  You  know  that  I have  loved  you  long  and  dearly.” 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  my  face,  on  being  thus  addressed,  and  her  fingers  plied 
their  work,  and  she  looked  at  me  with  an  unmoved  countenance.  I saw  that  Miss 
Havisham  glanced  from  me  to  her,  and  from  her  to  me. 

“ I should  have  said  this  sooner,  but  for  my  long  mistake.  It  induced  me  to 
hope  that  Miss  Havisham  meant  us  for  one  another.  While  I thought  you 
could  not  help  yourself,  as  it  were,  I refrained  from  saying  it.  But  I must  say  it 
now.” 

Preserving  her  unmoved  countenance,  and  with  her  fingers  still  going,  Estella 
shook  her  head. 

“ I know,”  said  I,  in  answer  to  that  action ; “I  know.  I have  no  hope  that  I 
shall  ever  call  you  mine,  Estella.  I am  ignorant  what  may  become  of  me  very  soon, 
how  poor  I may  be,  or  where  I may  go.  Still,  I love  you.  I have  loved  you  ever 
since  I first  saw  you  in  this  house.” 

Looking  at  me  perfectly  unmoved  and  with  her  fingers  busy,  she  shook  her  head 
again. 

“ It  would  have  been  cruel  in  Miss  Havisham,  horribly  cruel,  to  practise  on  the 
•r-'isceptibility  of  a poor  bo)  and  to  torture  me  through  all  these  years  with  a vain 


A3  3 


My  love  is  unintelligible  to  Estella . 


hope  and  an  idle  pursuit,  if  she  had  reflected  on  the  gravity  of  what  she  did.  But 
I think  she  did  not.  I think  that  in  the  endurance  of  her  own  trial,  she  forgot 
mine,  Estella.” 

I saw  Miss  Havisham  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and  hold  it  there,  as  she  saj 
looking  oy  turns  at  Estella  and  at  me. 

“ It  seems,”  said  Estella,  very  calmly,  “that  there  are  sentiments,  fancies — I 
don’t  know  how  to  call  them — which  I am  not  able  to  comprehend.  When  you 
say  you  love  me,  I know  what  you  mean,  as  a form  of  words  ; but  nothing  more. 
You  address  nothing  in  my  breast,  you  touch  nothing  there.  I don’t  care  for  what 
you  say  at  all.  I have  tried  to  warn  you  of  this  ; now,  have  I not  ?” 

I said  in  a miserable  manner,  “Yes.” 

“ Yes.  But  you  would  not  be  warned,  for  you  thought  I did  not  mean  it.  Now, 
did  you  not  think  so  ?” 

“ I thought  and  hoped  you  could  not  mean  it.  You,  so  young,  untried,  and 
beautiful,  Estella  ! Surely  it  is  not  in  Nature.” 

“ It  is  in  my  nature,”  she  returned.  And  then  she  added,  with  a stress  upon  the 
words,  “ It  is  in  the  nature  formed  within  me.  I make  a great  difference  between 
you  and  all  other  people  when  I say  so  much.  I can  do  no  more.” 

“Is  it  not  true,”  said  I,  “ that  Bentley  Drummle  is  in  town  here,  and  pursuing 
you  ?” 

“It  is  quite  true,”  she  replied,  referring  to  him  with  the  indifference  of  utter 
contempt. 

“ That  you  encourage  him,  and  ride  out  with  him,  and  that  he  dines  with  you 
this  very  day  ?” 

She  seemed  a little  surprised  that  I should  know  it,  but  again  replied,  “ Quite 
true.” 

“You  cannot  love  him,  Estella  ?” 

Her  fingers  stopped  for  the  first  time,  as  she  retorted  rather  angrily,  “ What 
have  I told  you  ? Do  you  still  think,  in  spite  of  it,  that  I do  not  mean  what  I 
say  ?” 

“ You  would  never  marry  him,  Estella  ?” 

She  looked,  towards  Miss  Havisham,  and  considered  for  a moment  with  her  work 
in  her  hands.  Then  she  said,  “ Why  not  tell  you  the  truth  ? I am  going  to  be 
married  to  him.” 

I dropped  my  face  into  my  hands,  but  was  able  to  control  myself  better  than  I 
could  have  expected,  considering  wThat  agony  it  gave  me  to  hear  her  say  those 
words.  When  I raised  my  face  again,  there  was  such  a ghastly  look  upon  Miss 
Havisham’s,  that  it  impressed  me,  even  in  my  passionate  hurry  and  grief. 

“ Estella,  dearest,  dearest  Estella,  do  not  let  Miss  Havisham  lead  you  into  this 
fatal  step.  Put  me  aside  for  ever — you  have  done  so,  I well  know — but  bestow  your- 
self on  some  worthier  person  than  Drummle.  Miss  Havisham  gives  you  to  him, 
as  the  greatest  slight  and  injury  that  could  be  done  to  the  many  far  better  men 
who  admire  you,  and  to  the  few  who  truly  love  you.  Among  those  few,  there  may 
oe  one  who  loves  you  even  as  dearly,  though  he  has  not  loved  you  as  long,  as  I. 
Take  him,  and  I can  bear  it  better  for  your  sake  !” 

M y earnestness  awoke  a wonder  in  her  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  have  been 
touched  with  compassion,  if  she  could  have  rendered  me  at  all  intelligible  to  her 
.mu  mind. 

‘ Iam  going,”  she  said  again,  in  a gentler  voice,  “ to  be  married  to  him.  The 
preparations  for  my  marriage  are  making,  and  I shall  be  married  soon.  Why  do 
y<  a injuriously  introduce  the  name  of  my  mother  by  adoption  ? It  is  my  own  act.” 
Your  own  act,  Estella,  to  fling  yourself  away  upon  a brute  ?” 

On  whom  should  I fling  myself  away  ?”  she  retorted,  with  a smile.  “ Should 


434 


Great  Expectations. 


I fling  myself  away  upon  the  man  who  would  the  soonest  feel  (if  people  do  fee* 
such  things)  that  I took  nothing  to  him  ? There  ! It  is  done.  I shall  do  wefi 
enough,  and  so  will  my  husband.  As  to  leading  me  into  what  you  call  this  fatal 
step,  Miss  Havisham  would  have  had  me  wait,  and  not  marry  yet ; but  I am  tired 
of  the  life  I have  led,  which  has  very  few  charms  for  me,  and  I am  willing  enough 
to  change  it.  Say  no  more  We  shall  never  understand  each  other.’' 

“ Such  a mean  brute,  such  a stupid  brute  ! ” I urged  in  despair. 

“ Don’t  be  afraid  of  my  being  a blessing  to  him,”  said  Estella  ; “ I shall  not  bt 

that.  Come  ! Here  is  my  hand.  Do  we  part  on  this,  you  visionary  boy or 

man  ? ” 

“ O Estella ! ” I answered,  as  my  bitter  tears  fell  fast  on  her  hand,  do  what  I 
would  to  restrain  them  ; “ even  if  I remained  in  England  and  could  hold  my  head 
up  with  the  rest,  how  could  I see  you  Drummle’s  wife  ? ” 

“ Nonsense,”  she  returned,  “ nonsense.  This  will  pass  in  no  time.” 

“ Never,  Estella ! ” 

“ You  will  get  me  out  of  your  thoughts  in  a week.” 

“Out  of  my  thoughts!  You  are  part  of  my  existence,  part  of  myself.  You 
have  been  in  every  line  I have  ever  read,  since  I first  came  here,  the  rough  common 
boy  whose  poor  heart  you  wounded  even  then.  You  have  been  in  every  prospect 
I have  ever  seen  since— on  the  river,  on  the  sails  of  the  ships,  on  the  marshes,  in 
the  clouds,  in  the  light,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  wind,  in  the  woods,  in  the  sea,  in 
the  streets.  You  have  been  the  embodiment  of  every  graceful  fancy  that  my  mind 
has  ever  become  acquainted  with.  The  stones  of  which  the  strongest  London 
buildings  are  made,  are  not  more  real,  or  more  impossible  to  be  displaced  by  your 
hands,  than  your  presence  and  influence  have  been  to  me,  there  and  everywhere, 
and  will  be.  Estella,  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life,  you  cannot  choose  but  remain 
part  of  my  character,  part  of  the  little  good  in  me,  part  of  the  evil.  But,  in  this 
separation,  I associate  you  only  with  the  good,  and  I will  faithfully  hold  you  to  that 
always,  for  you  must  have  done  me  far  more  good  than  harm,  let  me  feel  now  what 
sharp  distress  I may.  O God  bless  you,  God  forgive  you  ! ” 

In  what  ecstasy  of  unhappiness  I got  these  broken  words  out  of  myself,  I don’t 
know.  The  rhapsody  welled  up  within  me,  like  blood  from  an  inward  wound,  and 
gushed  out  I held  her  hand  to  my  lips  some  lingering  moments,  and  so  I left  her. 
But  ever  afterwards,  I remembered — and  soon  afterwards  with  stronger  reason — 
that  while  Estella  looked  at  me  merely  with  incredulous  wonder,  the  spectral  figure 
of  Miss  Havisham,  her  hand  still  covering  her  heart,  seemed  all  resolved  into  a 
ghastly  stare  of  pity  and  remorse. 

All  done,  all  gone ! So  much  was  done  and  gone,  that  when  I went  out  at  the 
gate,  the  light  of  day  seemed  of  a darker  colour  than  when  I went  in.  For  a while, 
I hid  myself  among  some  lanes  and  by-paths,  and  then  struck  off  to  walk  all  the 
way  to  London.  For,  I had  by  that  time  come  to  myself  so  far,  as  to  consider  that 
I could  not  go  back  to  the  inn  and  see  Drummle  there  ; that  I could  not  bear  to 
sit  upon  the  coach  and  be  spoken  to ; that  I could  do  nothing  half  so  good  for 
myself  as  tire  myself  out. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  I crossed  London  Bridge.  Pursuing  the  narrow 
intricacies  of  the  streets  which  at  that  time  tended  westward  near  the  Middlesex 
shore  of  the  river,  my  readiest  access  to  the  Temple  was  close  by  the  river-side, 
through  Whitefriars.  I was  not  expected  till  to-morrow,  but  I had  my  keys,  and, 
if  Herbert  were  gone  to  bed,  could  get  to  bed  myself  without  disturbing  him. 

As  it  seldom  happened  that  I came  in  at  that  Whitefriars  gate  after  the  Temple 
was  closed,  and  as  I was  very  muddy  and  weary,  I did  not  take  it  ill  that  the  night- 
porter  examined  me  with  much  attention  as  he  held  the  gate  a little  way  open  for  me 
to  pass  in.  To  help  his  memory  I mentioned  my  name. 


I receive  a warning . 


43; 


“ I was  not  quite  sure,  sir,  but  I thought  so.  Here’s  a note,  sir.  The  messengei 
that  brought  it,  said  would  you  be  so  good  as  read  it  by  my  lantern  ?” 

Much  surprised  by  the  request,  I took  the  note.  It  was  directed  to  Philip  Pip, 
Esquire,  and  on  the  top  of  the  superscription  were  the  words,  “ Please  read  this 
here.”  I opened  it,  the  watchman  holding  up  his  light,  and  read  inside,  in 
Wemmick’s  writing : 

“ Don’t  go  Home.” 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Turning  from  the  Temple  gate  as  soon  as  I had  read  the  warning,  I made  the 
best  of  my  way  to  Fleet-street,  and  there  got  a late  hackney  chariot  and  drove  to 
the  Hummums  in  Covent  Garden.  In  those  times  a bed  was  always  to  be  got  there 
at  any  hour  of  the  night,  and  the  chamberlain,  letting  me  in  at  his  ready  wicket, 
lighted  the  candle  next  in  order  on  his  shelf,  and  showed  me  straight  into  the  bed- 
room next  in  order  on  his  list.  It  was  a sort  of  vault  on  the  ground  floor  at  the 
back,  with  a despotic  monster  of  a four-post  bedstead  in  it,  straddling  over  the 
whole  place,  putting  one  of  his  arbitrary  legs  into  the  fire-place,  and  another  into 
the  doorway,  and  squeezing  the  wretched  little  washing-stand  in  quite  a Divinel) 
Righteous  manner. 

As  I had  asked  for  a night-light,  the  chamberlain  had  brought  me  in,  before  he 
left  me,  the  good  old  constitutional  rush-light  of  those  virtuous  days — an  object 
like  the  ghost  of  a walking-cane,  which  instantly  broke  its  back  if  it  were  touched, 
which  nothing  could  ever  be  lighted  at,  and  which  was  placed  in  solitary  confine- 
ment at  the  bottom  of  a high  tin  tower,  perforated  with  round  holes  that  made  a 
staringly  wide-awake  pattern  on  the  walls.  When  I had  got  into  bed,  and  lay 
there,  footsore,  weary,  and  wretched,  I found  that  I could  no  more  close  my  own 
eyes  than  I could  close  the  eyes  of  this  foolish  Argus.  And  thus,  in  the  gloom  and 
death  of  the  night,  we  stared  at  one  another. 

What  a doleful  night ! How  anxious,  how  dismal,  how  long  ! There  was  an 
inhospitable  smell  in  the  room,  of  cold  soot  and  hot  dust ; and,  as  I looked  up  into 
the  corners  of  the  tester  over  my  head,  I thought  what  a number  of  blue-bottle  flies 
from  the  butcher’s,  and  earwigs  from  the  market,  and  grubs  from  the  country, 
must  be  holding  on  up  there,  lying  by  for  next  summer.  This  led  me  to  speculate 
whether  any  of  them  ever  tumbled  down,  and  then  I fancied  that  I felt  light  falls  on 
my  face — a disagreeable  turn  of  thought,  suggesting  other  and  more  objectionable 
approaches  up  my  back.  When  I had  lain  awake  a little  while,  those  extraordinary 
voices  with  which  silence  teems,  began  to  make  themselves  audible.  The  closet 
whispered,  the  fireplace  sighed,  the  little  washing-stand  ticked,  and  one  guitar- 
string played  occasionally  in  the  chest  of  drawers.  At  about  the  same  time,  the 
eyes  on  the  wall  acquired  a new  expression,  and  in  every  one  of  those  staring  rounds 
I saw  written,  Don’t  go  Home. 

Whatever  night-fancies  and  night-noises  crowded  on  me,  they  never  warded  off 
this  Don’t  go  Home.  It  plaited  itself  into  whatever  I thought  of,  as  a bodily 
pain  would  have  done.  Not  long  before,  I had  read  in  the  newspapers  how  a gen- 
tleman unknown  had  come  to  the  Hummums  in  the  night,  and  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  had  destroyed  himself,  and  had  been  found  in  the  morning  weltering  in  blood. 
It  came  into  my  head  that  he  must  have  occupied  this  very  vault  of  mine,  and  I 
got  out  of  bed  to  assure  myself  that  there  were  no  red  marks  about ; then  opened 
the  door  to  look  out  into  the  passages,  and  cheer  myself  with  the  companionship 
of  a distant  light,  near  which  I knew  the  chamberlain  to  be  dozing.  But  ali  thii 


13<> 


Great  Exudations. 


time,  why  I was  not  to  go  home,  and  what  had  happened  at  home,  and  when  1 
should  go  home,  and  whether  Provis  was  safe  at  home,  were  questions  occupying 
my  mind  so  busily,  that  one  might  have  supposed  there  could  be  no  more  room  in 
it  for  any  other  theme.  Even  when  I thought  of  Estella,  and  how  we  had  partecj 
that  day  for  ever,  and  when  I recalled  all  the  circumstances  of  our  parting,  and  all 
her  looks  and  tones,  and  the  action  of  her  fingers  while  she  knitted — even  then  I 
was  pursuing,  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  the  caution  Don’t  go  home.  When 
at  last  I dozed,  in  sheer  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body,  it  became  a vast  shadowy 
verb  which  I had  to  conjugate,  Imperative  mood,  present  tense  : Do  not  thou  go 
home,  let  him  not  go  home,  let  us  not  go  home,  do  not  ye  or  you  go  home,  let  not 
them  go  home.  Then,  potentially  : I may  not  and  I cannot  go  home  ; and  I might 
not,  could  not,  would  not,  and  should  not  go  home  ; until  I felt  that  I was  going 
distracted,  and  rolled  over  on  the  pillow,  and  looked  at  the  staring  rounds  upon  the 
wall  again. 

I had  left  directions  that  I was  to  be  called  at  seven  ; for  it  was  plain  that  I 
must  see  Wemmick  before  seeing  any  one  else,  and  equally  plain  that  this  was  a 
case  in  which  his  Walworth  sentiments,  only,  could  be  taken.  It  was  a relief  to 
get  out  of  the  room  where  the  night  had  been  so  miserable,  and  I needed  no  second 
knocking  at  the  door  to  startle  me  from  my  uneasy  bed. 

The  Castle  battlements  arose  upon  my  view  at  eight  o’clock.  The  little  servant 
happening  to  be  entering  the  fortress  with  two  hot  rolls,  I passed  through  the  pos- 
tern and  crossed  the  drawbridge,  in  her  company,  and  so  came  without  announce- 
ment into  the  presence  of  Wemmick  as  he  was  making  tea  for  himself  and  the 
Aged.  An  open  door  afforded  a perspective  view  of  the  Aged  in  bed. 

“ Halloa,  Mr.  Pip  !”  said  Wemmick.  “You  did  come  home,  then  ?” 

“ Yes,”  I returned  ; “ but  I didn’t  go  home.” 

“ That’s  all  right,”  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands.  “I  left  a note  for  you  at  each 
of  the  Temple  gates,  - on  the  chance.  Which  gate  did  you  come  to  ?” 

I told  him. 

“ I’ll  go  round  to  the  others  in  the  course  of  the  day  and  destroy  the  notes,” 
said  Wemmick;  “ it’s  a good  rule  never  to  leave  documentary  evidence  if  you  can 
help  it,  because  you  don’t  know  when  it  may  be  put  in.  I’m  going  to  take  a 
liberty  with  you — Would  you  mind  toasting  this  sausage  for  the  Aged  P.  ?” 

I said  I should  he  delighted  to  do  it. 

“ Then  you  can  go  about  your  work,  Mary  Anne,”  said  Wemmick  to  the  little 
servant;  “which  leaves  us  to  ourselves,  don’t  you  see,  Mr.  Pip?”  he  added, 
winking,  as  she  disappeared. 

I thanked  him  for  his  friendship  and  caution,  and  our  discourse  proceeded  in  a 
low  tone,  while  I toasted  the  Aged’s  sausage  and  he  buttered  the  crumb  of  the 
Aged’s  roll. 

“Now,  Mr.  Pip,  you  know,”  said  Wemmick,  “you  and  I understand  one 
another.  We  are  in  our  private  and  personal  capacities,  and  we  have  been 
engaged  in  a confidential  transaction  before  to-day.  Official  sentiments  are  one 
thing.  We  are  extra  official.” 

I cordially  assented.  I was  so  very  nervous,  that  I had  already  lighted  the 
Aged’s  sausage  like  a torch,  and  been  obliged  to  blow  it  out. 

“ I accidentally  heard,  yesterday  morning,”  said  Wemmick,  “ being  in  a certain 
place  where  I once  took  you — even  between  you  and  me,  it’s  as  well  not  to  men- 
tion names  when  avoidable- ” 

“ Much  better  not,”  said  I.  “ I understand  you.” 

“ I heard  there  by  chance,  yesterday  morning,”  said  Wemmick,  “ that  a certain 
person  not  altogether  of  uncolonial  pursuits,  and  not  unpossessed  of  portable  pro- 
perty— I don’t  know  who  it  may  really  be— we  won’t  name  this  person — — ” 


t toast  a sausage  for  the  Aged  P. 


437 


“ Not  necessary,”  said  I. 

“ — had  made  some  little  stir  in  a certain  part  of  the  world  where  a good  many 
people  go,  not  always  in  gratification  of  their  own  inclinations,  and  not  quite  irre- 
spective of  the  government  expense ” 

In  watching  his  face,  I made  quite  a firework  of  the  Aged’s  sausage,  and  greatly 
discomposed  both  my  own  attention  and  Wemmick’s  ; for  which  I apologised. 

“ — by  disappearing  from  such  place,  and  being  no  more  heard  of  thereabouts. 
From  which,”  said  Wemmick,  “conjectures  had  been  raised  and  theories  formed. 
I also  heard  that  you  at  your  chambers  in  Garden-court,  Temple,  had  been 
watched,  and  might  be  watched  again.” 

“ By  whom  ?”  said  I. 

“I  wouldn’t  go  into  that,”  said  Wemmick,  evasively,  “it  might  clash  with 
official  responsibilities.  I heard  it,  as  I have  in  my  time  heard  other  curious 
things  in  the  same  place.  I don’t  tell  it  you  on  information  received.  I heard 
it.” 

He  took  the  toasting-fork  and  sausage  from  me  as  he  spoke,  and  set  forth  the 
Aged’s  breakfast  neatly  on  a little  tray.  Previous  to  placing  it  before  him,  he 
went  into  the  Aged’s  room  with  a clean  white  cloth,  and  tied  the  same  under  the 
old  gentleman’s  chin,  and  propped  him  up,  and  put  his  nightcap  on  one  side,  and 
gave  him  quite  a rakish  air.  Then,  he  placed  his  breakfast  before  him  with  great 
care,  and  said,  “All  right,  ain’t  you,  Aged  P.  ?”  To  which  the  cheerful  Aged 
replied,  “All  right,  John,  my  boy,  all  right!”  As  there  seemed  to  be  a tacit 
understanding  that  the  Aged  was  not  in  a presentable  state,  and  was  therefore  to 
be  considered  invisible,  I made  a pretence  of  being  in  complete  ignorance  of  these 
proceedings. 

“ This  watching  of  me  at  my  chambers  (which  I have  once  had  reason  to  sus- 
pect),” I said  to  Wemmick  when  he  came  back,  “ is  inseparable  from  the  person 
to  whom  you  have  adverted  ; is  it  ?” 

Wemmick  looked  very  serious.  “ I couldn’t  undertake  to  say  that,  of  m}'  own 
knowledge.  I mean,  I couldn’t  undertake  to  say  it  was  at  first.  But  it  either  is, 
or  it  will  be,  or  it’s  in  great  danger  of  being.” 

As  I saw  that  he  was  restrained  by  fealty  to  Little  Britain  from  saying  as  much 
as  he  could,  and  as  I knew  with  thankfulness  to  him  how  far  out  of  his  way  he 
went  to  say  what  he  did,  I could  not  press  him.  Bui  I told  him,  after  a little 
Meditation  over  the  fire,  that  I would  like  to  ask  him  a question,  subject  to  his 
a?nswering  or  not  answering,  as  he  deemed  right,  and  sure  that  his  course  would 
be  right.  He  paused  in  his  breakfast,  and  crossing  his  arms,  and  pinching  his 
shirt-sleeves  (his  notion  of  indoor  comfort  was  to  sit  without  i\ny  coat),  he  nodded 
to  me  once,  to  put  my  question. 

“ You  have  heard  of  a man  of  bad  character,  whose  true  name  is  Compeyson  ?” 

He  answered  with  one  other  nod. 

“ Is  he  living  ?” 

One  other  nod. 

“Is  he  in  London  ?” 

He  gave  me  one  other  nod,  compressed  the  post-office  exceedingly,  gave  me  one 
last  nod,  and  went  on  with  his  breakfast. 

“ Now,”  said  Wemmick,  “ questioning  being  over which  he  emphasised  and 
repeated  for  my  guidance  ; “I  come  to  what  I did,  after  hearing  what  I heard.  I 
went  to  Garden-court  to  find  you;  not  finding  you,  I went  to  Clarriker’s  to  find 
Mr.  Herbert.” 

v And  him  you  found  ?”  said  I,  with  great  anxiety. 

“ And  him  I found.  Without  mentioning  any  names  or  going  into  any  details, 
I gave  him  to  understand  that  if  he  was  aware  of  anybody — Tom,  jack*  or  Richard 


«8 


Great  Expectation. 


— being  about  the  chambers,  or  about  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  he  had  better 
get  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard,  out  of  the  way  while  you  were  out  of  the  way.’* 

“ He  would  be  greatly  puzzled  what  to  do  ?” 

“ He  was  puzzled  what  to  do ; not  the  less,  because  I gave  him  my  opinion 
that  it  was  not  safe  to  try  to  get  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard,  too  far  out  of  the  way 
at  present.  Mr.  Pip,  I’ll  tell  you  something.  Under  existing  circumstances  there 
is  no  place  like  a great  city  when  you  are  once  in  it.  Don’t  break  cover  too  soon. 
Lie  close.  Wait  till  things  slacken,  before  you  try  the  open,  even  for  foreign  air.’* 

I thanked  him  for  his  valuable  advice,  and  asked  him  what  Herbert  had  done  ? 

“ Mr.  Herbert,”  said  Wemmick,  “ after  being  all  of  a heap  for  half  an  hour, 
struck  out  a plan.  He  mentioned  to  me  as  a secret,  that  he  is  courting  a young 
lady  who  has,  as  no  doubt  you  are  aware,  a bedridden  Pa.  Which  Pa,  having 
been  in  the  Purser  line  of  life,  lies  a-bed  in  a bow-window  where  he  can  see  the 
ships  sail  up  and  down  the  river.  You  are  acquainted  with  the  young  lady,  most 
probably  ?” 

“Not  personally,”  said  I. 

The  truth  was,  that  she  had  objected  to  me  as  an  expensive  companion  who  did 
Herbert  no  good,  and  that,  when  Herbert  had  first  proposed  to  present  me  to  her, 
she  had  received  the  proposal  with  such  very  moderate  warmth,  that  Herbert  had 
felt  himself  obliged  to  confide  the  state  of  the  case  to  me,  with  a view  to  the  lapse 
of  a little  time  before  I made  her  acquaintance.  When  I had  begun  to  advance 
Herbert’s  prospects  by  stealth,  I had  been  able  to  bear  this  with  cheerful  philo- 
sophy ; he  and  his  affianced,  for  their  part,  had  naturally  not  been  very  anxious  to 
introduce  a third  person  into  their  interviews ; and  thus,  although  I was  assured 
that  I had  risen  in  Clara’s  esteem,  and  although  the  young  lady  and  I had  long 
regularly  interchanged  messages  and  remembrances  by  Herbert,  I had  never  seen 
her.  However,  I did  not  trouble  Wemmick  with  those  particulars. 

“The  house  with  the  bow-window,”  said  Wemmick,  “being  by  the  river-side, 
down  the  Pool  there  between  Limehouse  and  Greenwich,  and  being  kept,  it  seems, 
by  a very  respectable  widow,  who  has  a furnished  upper  floor  to  let,  Mr.  Herbert 
put  it  to  me,  what  did  I think  of  that  as  a temporary  tenement  for  Tom,  Jack,  or 
Richard  ? Now,  I thought  very  well  of  it,  for  three  reasons  I’ll  give  you.  That 
is  to  say.  Firstly.  It’s  altogether  out  of  all  your  beats,  and  is  well  away  from 
the  usual  heap  of  streets  great  and  small.  Secondly.  Without  going  near  it 
/ourself,  you  could  always  hear  of  the  safety  of  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard,  through 
Mr.  Herbert.  Thirdly.  After  a while  and  when  it  might  be  prudent,  if  you 
should  want  to  slip  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard,  on  board  a foreign  packet-boat,  there 
he  is— ready.” 

Much  comforted  by  these  considerations,  I thanked  Wemmick  again  and  again, 
nnd  begged  him  to  proceed. 

“ Well,  sir  ! Mr.  Herbert  threw  himself  into  the  business  with  a will,  and  by 
nine  o’clock  last  night  he  housed  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard — whichever  it  may  be — 
you  and  I don’t  want  to  know — quite  successfully.  At  the  old  lodgings  it  was 
understood  that  he  was  summoned  to  Dover,  and  in  fact  he  was  taken  down  the 
Dover  road  and  cornered  out  of  it.  Now,  another  great  advantage  of  all  this  is, 
that  it  was  done  without  you,  and  when,  if  anyone  was  concerning  himself  about  your 
movements,  you  must  be  known  to  be  ever  so  many  miles  off,  and  quite  otherwise 
engaged.  This  diverts  suspicion  and  confuses  it;  and  for  the  same  reason  I 
recommended  that  even  if  you  came  back  last  night,  you  should  not  go  home.  It 
brings  in  more  confusion,  and  you  want  confusion.” 

Wemmick,  having  finished  his  breakfast,  here  looked  at  his  watch,  and  began 
to  get  his  coat  on. 

“ And  now,  Mr,  Pip,”  said  he,  with  his  hands  still  in  the  sleeves,  “ I have  pro- 


Wemmick' s advice  and  management. 


439 


bablv  done  the  most  I can  do  ; but  if  I can  ever  do  more — from  a Walworth  point 
of  view,  and  in  a strictly  private  and  personal  capacity — I shall  be  glad  to  do  it 
Here’s  the  address.  There  can  be  no  harm  in  your  going  here  to-night  and  seeing 
for  yourself  tnat  all  is  well  with  Tom,  Jack,  or  Richard,  before  you  go  home — 
which  is  another  reason  for  your  not  going  home  last  night.  But  after  you  have 
gone  home,  don’t  go  back  here.  You  are  very  welcome,  I am  sure,  Mr.  Pip;” 
his  hands  were  now  out  of  his  sleeves,  and  1 was  shaking  them;  “and  let  me 
finally  impress  one  important  point  upon  you.”  He  laid  his  hands  upon  my 
shoulders,  and  added  in  a solemn  whisper : “ Avail  yourself  of  this  evening  to  lay 
hold  of  his  portable  property.  You  don’t  know  what  may  happen  to  him.  Don’t 
let  anything  happen  to  the  portable  property.” 

Quite  despairing  of  making  my  mind  clear  to  Wemmick  on  this  point,  I forbore 
to  try. 

“ Time ’s  up,”  said  Wemmick,  “ and  I must  be  off.  If  you  had  nothing  more 
pressing  to  do  than  to  keep  here  till  dark,  that’s  what  I should  advise.  You  look 
very  much  worried,  and  it  would  do  you  good  to  have  a perlectly  quiet  day  with 

the  Aged — he’ll  be  up  presently — and  a little  bit  of you  remember  the 

pig  ?” 

“ Of  course,”  said  I. 

“ Well ; and  a little  bit  of  him . That  sausage  you  toasted  was  his,  and  he  was 
in  all  respects  a first-rater.  Do  try  him,  if  it  is  only  for  old  acquaintance  sake. 
Good-bye,  Aged  Parent ! ” in  a cheery  shout. 

“ All  right,  John  ; all  right,  my  boy  ! ” piped  the  old  man  from  within. 

I soon  fell  asleep  before  Wemmick’s  fire,  and  the  Aged  and  I enjoyed  one 
another’s  society  by  falling  asleep  before  it  more  or  less  all  day.  We  had  loin  of 
pork  for  dinner,  and  greens  grown  on  the  estate,  and  I nodded  at  the  Aged  with 
a good  intention  whenever  I failed  to  do  it  drowsily.  When  it  was  quite  dark,  I 
left  the  Aged  preparing  the  fire  for  toast ; and  I inferred  from  the  number  of  tea- 
cups, as  well  as  from  his  glances  at  the  two  little  doors  in  the  wall,  that  Miss 
Skiffins  was  expected. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Eight  o’clock  had  struck  before  I got  into  the  air  that  was  scented,  not  disagree- 
ably, by  the  chips  and  shavings  of  the  long-shore  boat-builders,  and  mast,  oar, 
and  block  makers.  All  that  water-side  region  of  the  upper  and  lower  Pool  below 
Bridge,  was  unknown  ground  to  me,  and  when  I struck  down  by  the  river,  I found 
that  the  spot  I wanted  was  not  where  I had  supposed  it  to  be,  and  was  mvthing 
but  easy  to  find.  It  was  called  Mill  Pond  Bank,  Chinks’s  Basin  ; and  I had  no 
other  guide  to  Chinks’s  Basin  than  the  Old  Green  Copper  Rope- Walk. 

It  matters  not  what  stranded  ships  repairing  in  dry  docks  I lost  myself  among, 
what  old  hulls  of  ships  in  course  of  being  knocked  to  pieces,  what  ooze  and  slime 
and  other  dregs  of  tide,  what  yards  of  ship-builders  and  ship-breakers,  what  rusty 
anchors  blindly  biting  into  the  ground  though  for  years  off  duty,  what  mountainous 
country  of  accumulated  casks  and  timber,  how  many  rope-walks  that  were  not  the 
Old  Green  Copper*  After  several  times  falling  short  of  my  destination  and  as 
often  over-shooting  it,  I came  unexpectedly  round  a corner,  upon  Mill  Pond 
Bank.  It  was  a fresh  kind  of  place,  all  circumstances  considered,  where  the  wind 
from  the  river  had  room  to  turn  itself  round  ; and  there  were  two  or  three  trees  in 
it,  and  there  was  the  stump  of  a ruined  windmill,  and  there  was  the  Old  Green 
Copper  Rope- Walk — whose  long  and  narrow  vista  I could  trace  in  th*  mooefight. 


Great  Expectations. 


44  o 


along  a series  of  wooden  frames  set  in  the  ground,  that  looked  like  superannuated 
haymaking-rakes  which  had  grown  old  and  lost  most  of  their  teeth. 

Selecting  from  the  few  queer  houses  upon  Mill  Pond  Bank,  a house  with  a 
wooden  front  and  three  stories  of  bow-window  (not  bay-window,  which  is  anothei 
thing),  I looked  at  the  plate  upon  the  door,  and  read  there  Mrs.  Whimple.  That 
being  the  name  I wanted,  I knocked,  and  an  elderly  woman  of  a pleasant  and 
thriving  appearance  responded.  She  was  immediately  deposed,  however,  by 
Herbert,  who  silently  led  me  into  the  parlour  and  shut  the  door.  It  was  an  odd 
sensation  to  see  his  very  familiar  face  established  quite  at  home  in  that  very  un- 
familiar room  and  region  ; and  I found  myself  looking  at  him,  much  as  I looked  at 
the  corner  cupboard  with  the  glass  and  china,  the  shells  upon  the  chimney-piece, 
and  the  coloured  engravings  on  the  wall,  representing  the  death  of  Captain  Cook, 
a ship-launch,  and  his  Majesty  King  George  the  Third  in  a state  coachman’s  wig, 
leather  breeches,  and  top-boots,  on  the  terrace  at  Windsor. 

“All  is  well,  Handel,”  said  Herbert,  “and  he  is  quite  satisfied,  though  eager 
to  see  you.  My  dear  girl  is  with  her  father ; and  if  you’ll  wait  till  she  comes 

down,  I’ll  make  you  known  to  her,  and  then  we’ll  go  up-stairs. Thafs  her 

father.” 

I had  become  aware  of  an  alarming  growling  overhead,  and  had  probably 
expressed  the  fact  in  my  countenance. 

“ I am  afraid  he  is  a sad  old  rascal,”  said  Herbert,  smiling,  “but  I have  never 
seen  him.  Don’t  you  smell  rum  ? He  is  always  at  it.” 

“ At  rum  ?”  said  I. 

“ Yes,”  returned  Herbert,  “and  you  may  suppose  how  mild  it  makes  his  gout. 
He  persists,  too,  in  keeping  all  the  provisions  up-stairs  in  his  room,  and  serving 
them  out.  He  keeps  them  on  shelves  over  his  head,  and  will  weigh  them  all. 
His  room  must  be  like  a chandler’s  shop.” 

While  he  thus  spoke,  the  growling  noise  became  a prolonged  roar,  and  then 
died  away. 

“What  else  can  be  the  consequence,”  said  Herbert,  in  explanation,  “if he  will 
cut  the  cheese  ? A man  with  the  gout  in  his  right  hand — and  everywhere  else — • 
can’t  expect  to  get  through  a Double  Gloucester  without  hurting  himself.” 

He  seemed  to  have  hurt  himself  very  much,  for  he  gave  another  furious  roar. 

“ To  have  Provis  for  an  upper  lodger  is  quite  a godsend  to  Mrs.  Whimple,” 
said  Herbert,  “ for  of  course  people  in  general  won’t  stand  that  noise.  A curious 
place,  Handel;  isn’t  it  ?” 

It  was  a curious  place,  indeed  ; but  remarkably  well  kept  and  clean. 

“ Mrs.  Whimple,”  said  Herbert,  when  I told  him  so,  “ is  the  best  of  housewives, 
and  I really  do  not  know  what  my  Clara  would  do  without  her  motherly  help. 
For,  Clara  has  no  mother  of  her  own,  Handel,  and  no  relation  in  the  world  but 
old  Gruffandgrim.” 

“ Surely  that’s  not  his  name,  Herbert  ?” 

“No,  no,”  said  Herbert,  “ that’s  my  name  for  him.  His  name  is  Mr.  Barley. 
But  what  a blessing  it  is  for  the  son  of  my  father  and  mother,  to  love  a girl  who  has 
no  relations,  and  who  can  never  bother  herself,  or  anybody  else,  about  her  family?” 

Herbert  had  told  me  on  former  occasions,  and  now  reminded  me,  that  he  first 
knew  Miss  Clara  Barley  when  she  was  completing  her  education  at  an  establish- 
ment at  Hammersmith,  and  that  on  her  being  recalled  home  to  nurse  her  father, 
he  and  she  had  confided  their  affection  to  the  motherly  Mrs.  Whimple,  by  whom 
it  had  been  fostered  and  regulated  with  equal  kindness  and  discretion  ever  since. 
It  was  understood  that  nothing  of  a tender  nature  could  possibly  be  confided  tc 
Old  Barley,  by  reason  of  his  being  totally  unequal  to  the  consideration  of  any 
subject  more  psychological  than  Gout,  Rum,  and  Purser’s  stores. 


Old  Barley • 


44 


As  we  were  thus  conversing  in  a low  tone  while  Old  Barley’s  sustained  grow* 
fibrated  in  the  beam  that  crossed  the  ceiling,  the  room  door  opened,  and  a very 
pretty,  slight,  dark-eyed  girl  of  twenty  or  so,  came  in  with  a basket  in  her  hand  : 
whom  Herbert  tenderly  relieved  of  the  basket,  and  presented  blushing,  as  “Clara.” 
She  really  was  a most  charming  girl,  and  might  have  passed  for  a captive  fairy, 
whom  that  truculent  Ogre,  Old  Barley,  had  pressed  into  his  service. 

“ Look  here,”  said  Herbert,  showing  me  the  basket,  with  a compassionate  and 
tender  smile  after  we  had  talked  a little  ; “ here’s  poor  Clara’s  supper,  served  out 
every  night.  Here’s  her  allowance  of  bread,  and  here’s  her  slice  of  cheese,  and 
here’s  her  rum — which  I drink.  This  is  Mr.  Barley’s  breakfast  for  to-morrow, 
served  out  to  be  cooked.  Two  mutton  chops,  three  potatoes,  some  split  peas,  a 
little  flour,  two  ounces  of  butter,  a pinch  of  salt,  and  all  this  black  pepper.  It’s 
stewed  up  together,  and  taken  hot,  and  it’s  a nice  thing  for  the  gout,  I should 
think!” 

There  was  something  so  natural  and  winning  in  Clara’s  resigned  way  of  looking 
at  these  stores  in  detail,  as  Herbert  pointed  them  out, — and  something  so  confiding, 
loving  and  innocent,  in  her  modest  manner  of  yielding  herself  to  Herbert’s  em- 
bracing arm — and  something  so  gentle  in  her,  so  much  needing  protection  on  Mill 
Pond  Bank,  by  Chinks’s  Basin,  and  the  Old  Green  Copper  Rope-Walk,  with  Old 
Barley  growling  in  the  beam — that  I would  not  have  undone  the  engagement 
between  her  and  Herbert,  for  all  the  money  in  the  pocket-book  I had  never  opened. 

I was  looking  at  her  with  pleasure  and  admiration,  when  suddenly  the  growl 
swelled  into  a roar  again,  and  a frightful  bumping  noise  was  heard  above,  as  if  a 
giant  with  a wooden  leg  were  trying  to  bore  it  through  the  ceiling  to  come  at  us. 
Upon  this  Clara  said  to  Herbert,  “ Papa  wants  me,  darling  !”  and  ran  away. 

“ There  is  an  unconscionable  old  shark  for  you  !”  said  Herbert.  “ What  do 
you  suppose  he  wants  now,  Handel  ?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  I.  “ Something  to  drink  ?” 

“ That’s  it!”  cried  Herbert,  as  if  I had  made  a guess  of  extraordinary  merit. 
“ He  keeps  his  grog  ready-mixed  in  a little  tub  on  the  table.  Wait  a moment, 
and  you’ll  hear  Clara  lift  him  up  to  take  some. — There  he  goes  !”  Another  roar, 
with  a prolonged  shake  at  the  end.  “ Now,”  said  Herbert,  as  it  was  succeeded  by 
silence,  “he’s drinking.  Now,”  said  Herbert,  as  the  growl  resounded  in  the  beam 
once  more,  “ he’s  down  again  on  his  back  ! ” 

Clara  returned  soon  afterwards,  and  Herbert  accompanied  me  up-stairs  to  see 
our  charge.  As  we  passed  Mr.  Barley’s  door,  he  was  heard  hoarsely  muttering 
within,  in  a strain  that  rose  and  fell  like  wind,  the  following  Refrain ; in  which  I 
substitute  good  wishes  for  something  quite  the  reverse. 

“Ahoy!  Bless  your  eyes,  here’s  old  Bill  Barley.  Here’s  old  Bill  Barley, 
bless  your  eyes.  Here’s  old  Bill  Barley  on  the  flat  of  his  back,  by  the  Lord* 
Lying  on  the  flat  of  his  back,  like  a drifting  old  dead  flounder,  here’s  your  old 
Bill  Barley,  bless  your  eyes.  Ahoy  ! Bless  you.” 

In  this  strain  of  consolation,  Herbert  informed  me  the  invisible  Barley  would 
commune  with  himself  by  the  day  and  night  together ; often  while  it  was  light, 
having,  at  the  same  time,  one  eye  at  a telescope  which  was  fitted  on  his  bed  for 
the  convenience  of  sweeping  the  river. 

In  his  two  cabin  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  house,  which  were  fresh  and  aiiy,  and 
in  which  Mr.  Barley  was  less  audible  than  below,  I found  Provis  comfortably 
settled.  He  expressed  no  alarm,  and  seemed  to  feel  none  that  was  worth  men- 
tioning ; but  it  struck  me  that  he  was  softened — indefinably,  for  I could  not  have 
S'*  id  how,  and  could  never  afterwards  recall  how  when  I tried  ; but  certainly. 

The  opportunity  that  the  day’s  rest  had  given  me  for  reflection  had  resulted  in 
my  fully  determining  to  say  nothing  to  him  respecting  Compeyson.  For  anything 


442 


Great  Expectations . 


I knew,  his  animosity  towards  the  man  might  otherwise  lead  to  his  seeking  hin? 
out  and  rushing  on  his  own  destruction.  Therefore,  when  Herbert  and  I sat 
down  with  him  by  his  fire,  I asked  him  first  of  all  whether  he  relied  on  Wemmick’s 
judgment  and  sources  of  information  ? 

“ Ay,  ay,  dear  boy  ! ” he  answered,  with  a grave  nod,  “ Jaggers  knows.” 

“Then  I have  talked  with  Wemmick,”  said  I,  “and  have  come  to  tell  you 
what  caution  he  gave  me  and  what  advice.” 

This  I did  accurately,  with  the  reservation  just  mentioned  ; and  I told  him  how 
Wemmick  had  heard,  in  Newgate  prison  (whether  from  officers  or  prisoners  I 
could  not  say),  that  he  was  under  some  suspicion,  and  that  my  chambers  had  been 
watched  ; how  Wemmick  had  recommended  his  keeping  close  for  a time,  and  my 
keeping  away  from  him  ; and  what  Wemmick  had  said  about  getting  him  abroad. 
I added,  that  of  course,  when  the  time  came,  I should  go  with  him,  or  should 
follow  close  upon  him,  as  might  be  safest  in  Wemmick’s  judgment.  What  was 
to  follow  that,  I did  not  touch  upon ; neither  indeed  was  I at  all  clear  or  comfort- 
able about  it  in  my  own  mind,  now  that  I saw  him  in  that' softer  condition,  and  in 
declared  peril  for  my  sake.  As  to  altering  my  way  of  living,  by  enlarging  my  ex- 
penses, I put  it  to  him  whether  in  our  present  unsettled  and  difficult  circumstances, 
it  would  not  be  simply  ridiculous,  if  it  were  no  worse  ? 

He  could  not  deny  this,  and  indeed  was  very  reasonable  throughout.  His 
coming  back  was  a venture,  he  said,  and  he  had  always  known  it  to  be  a venture. 
He  would  do  nothing  to  make  it  a desperate  venture,  and  he  had  very  little  fear  of 
his  safety  with  such  good  help. 

Herbert,  who  had  been  looking  at  the  fire  and  pondering,  here  said  that  some- 
thing had  come  into  his  thoughts  arising  out  of  Wemmick’s  suggestion,  which  it 
might  be  worth  while  to  pursue.  “We  are  both  good  watermen,  Handel,  and 
could  take  him  down  the  river  ourselves  when  the  right  time  comes.  No  boat 
would  then  be  hired  for  the  purpose,  and  no  boatmen  ; that  would  save  at  least  a 
chance  of  suspicion,  and  any  chance  is  worth  saving.  Never  mind  the  season ; 
don’t  you  think  it  might  be  a good  thing  if  you  began  at  once  to  keep  a boat  at 
the  Temple  stairs,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  rowing  up  and  down  the  river  ? You 
fall  into  that  habit,  and  then  who  notices  or  minds  ? Do  it  twenty  or  fifty  times, 
and  there  is  nothin^  special  in  your  doing  it  the  twenty-first  or  fifty-first.” 

I liked  this  scht»r  «*  and  Provis  was  quite  elated  by  it.  We  agreed  that  it  should 
be  carried  into  execution,  and  that  Provis  should  never  recognise  us  if  we  came 
below  Bridge  and  rowed  past  Mill  Pond  Bank.  But,  we  further  agreed  that  he 
should  pull  down  the  blind  in  that  part  of  his  window  which  gave  upon  the  east, 
whenever  he  saw  us  and  all  was  right. 

Our  conference  being  now  ended,  and  everything  arranged,  I rose  to  go  ; re- 
marking to  Herbert  that  he  and  I had  better  not  go  home  together,  and  that  I 
would  take  half  an  hour’s  start  of  him.  “ I don’t  like  to  leave  you  here,”  I said 
to  Provis,  “ though  I cannot  doubt  your  being  safer  here  than  near  me.  Good-bye  ! ” 
“ Dear  boy,”  he  answered,  clasping  my  hands,  “ I don’t  know  when  we  may 
meet  again,  and  I d on’t  like  Good-bye.  Say  Good  Night ! if 

“ Good  night ! Herbert  will  go  regularly  between  us,  and  when  the  tifne 
comes  you  may  be  certain  I shall  be  ready.  Good  night,  Good  night ! ” 

We  thought  it  best  that  he  should  stay  in  his  own  rooms,  and  we  left  him  on 
the  landing  outside  his  door,  holding  a light  over  the  stair-rail  to  light  us  down 
stairs.  Looking  back  at  him,  I thought  of  the  first  night  of  his  return  when  our 
positions  were  reversed,  and  when  I little  supposed  my  heart  could  ever  be  as 
neavv  and  anxious  at  parting  from  him  as  it  was  noAV. 

Old  Barley  was  growling  and  swearing  when  we  repassed  his  door,  with  no  ap- 
pearance of  having  ceased  or  of  meaning  to  cease.  When  we  got  to  the  foot  of 


I begin  to  get  a boat  ready. 


44  3 


the  stairs,  I asked  Herbert  whether  he  had  preserved  the  name  of  Provis  ? He 
replied,  certainly  not,  and  that  the  lodger  was  Mr.  Campbell.  He  also  explained 
that  the  utmost  known  of  Mr.  Campbell  there,  was,  that  he  (Herbert)  had  Mr. 
Campbell  consigned  to  him,  and  felt  a strong  personal  interest  in  his  being  well 
cared  for,  and  living  a secluded  life.  So,  when  we  went  into  the  parlour  where 
Mrs.  Whimple  and  Clara  were  seated  at  work,  I said  nothing  of  my  own  interest 
in  Mr.  Campbell,  but  kept  it  to  myself. 

When  I had  taken  leave  of  the  pretty  gentle  dark-eyed  girl,  and  of  the  mo- 
therly woman  who  had  not  outlived  her  honest  sympathy  with  a little  affair  of  true 
love,  I felt  as  if  the  Old  Green  Copper  Rope- Walk  had  grown  quite  a different 
place.  Old  Barley  might  be  as  old, as  the  hills,  and  might  swear  like  a whole 
field  of  troopers,  but  there  were  redeeming  youth  and  trust  and  hope  enough  in 
Chinks’s  Basin  to  fill  it  to  overflowing.  And  then  I thought  of  Estella,  and  of 
our  parting,  and  went  home  very  sadly. 

Ail  things  were  as  quiet  in  the  Temple  as  ever  I had  seen  them.  The  windows 
of  the  rooms  of  that  side,  lately  occupied  by  Provis,  were  dark  and  still,  and 
there  was  no  lounger  in  Garden-court.  I walked  past  the  fountain  twice  or  thrice 
before  I descended  the  steps  that  were  between  me  and  my  rooms,  but  I was 
quite  alone.  Herbert  coming  to  my  bedside  when  he  came  in — for  I went  straight 
to  bed,  dispirited  and  fatigued — made  the  same  report.  Opening  one  of  the  win- 
dows after  that,  he  looked  out  into  the  moonlight,  and  told  me  that  the  pavement 
was  as  solemnly  empty  as  the  pavement  of  any  Cathedral  at  that  same  hour. 

Next  day,  I set  myself  to  get  the  boat.  It  was  soon  done,  and  the  boat  was 
brought  round  to  the  Temple  stairs,  and  lay  where  I could  reach  her  within  a 
minute  or  two.  Then,  I began  to  go  out  as  for  training  and  practice  : sometimes 
alone,  sometimes  with  Herbert.  I was  often  out  in  cold,  rain,  and  sleet,  but  no- 
body took  much  note  of  me  after  I had  been  out  a few  times.  At  first,  I kept 
above  Blackfriars  Bridge ; but  as  the  hours  of  the  tide  changed,  I took  towards 
London  Bridge.  It  was  Old  London  Bridge  in  those  days,  and  at  certain  states 
of  the  tide  there  was  a race  and  a fall  of  water  there  which  gave  it  a bad  repu- 
tation. But  I knew  well  enough  how  to  “ shoot  ” the  bridge  after  seeing  it  done, 
and  so  began  to  row  about  among  the  shipping  in  the  Pool,  and  down  to  Erith. 
The  first  time  I passed  Mill  Pond  Bank,  Herbert  and  I were  pulling  a pair  of 
oars  ; and,  both  in  going  and  returning,  we  saw  the  blind  towards  the  east  come 
down.  Herbert  was  rarely  there  less  frequently  than  three  times  in  a week,  and 
he  never  brought  me  a single  word  of  intelligence  that  was  at  all  alarming.  Still, 
I knew  that  there  was  cause  for  alarm,  and  I could  not  get  rid  of  the  notion  of 
being  watched.  Once  received,  it  is  a haunting  idea ; how  many  undesigning 
persons  I suspected  of  watching  me,  it  would  be  hard  to  calculate. 

In  short,  I was  always  full  of  fears  for  the  rash  man  who  was  in  hiding.  Her- 
bert had  sometimes  said  to  me  that  he  found  it  pleasant  to  stand  at  one  of  our 
windows  after  dark,  when  the  tide  was  running  down,  and  to  think  that  it  was 
flowing,  with  everything  it  bore,  towards  Clara.  But  I thought  with  dread  that 
it  was  flowing  towards  Magwitch,  and  that  any  black  mark  on  its  surface  might 
be  his  pursuers,  going  swiftly,  silently,  and  surely,  to  take  him. 


444 


Great  Expectations . 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Some  weeks  passed  without  bringing  any  change.  We  waited  for  Wemmick, 
and  he  made  no  sign.  If  I had  never  known  him  out  of  Little  Britain,  and  had 
never  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  being  on  a familiar  footing  at  the  Castle,  I might 
have  doubted  him  ; not  so  for  a moment,  knowing  him  as  I did. 

My  worldly  affairs  began  to  wear  a gloomy  appearance,  and  I was  pressed  for 
money  by  more  than  one  creditor.  Even  I myself  began  to  know  the  want  of 
money  (I  mean  of  ready  money  in  my  own  pocket),  and  to  relieve  it  by  converting 
some  easily  spared  articles  of  jewellery  into  cash.  But  I had  quite  determined 
that  it  would  be  a heartless  fraud  to  take  more  money  from  my  patron  in  the  ex- 
isting state  of  my  uncertain  thoughts  and  plans.  Therefore,  1 had  sent  him  the 
unopened  pocket-book  by  Herbert,  to  hold  in  his  own  keeping,  and  I felt  a kind 
of  satisfaction  —whether  it  was  a false  kind  or  a true,  I hardly  know — in  not 
having  profited  by  his  generosity  since  his  revelation  of  himself. 

As  the  time  wore  on,  an  impression  settled  heavily  upon  me  that  Estella  was 
married.  Fearful  of  having  it  confirmed,  though  it  was  all  but  a conviction,  I 
avoided  the  newspapers,  and  begged  Herbert  (to  whom  I had  confided  the  cir- 
cumstances of  our  last  interview)  never  to  speak  of  her  to  me.  Why  I hoarded 
up  this  last  wretched  little  rag  of  the  robe  of  hope  that  was  rent  and  given  to  the 
winds,  how  do  I know  ! Why  did  you  who  read  this,  commit  that  not  dissimilar 
inconsistency  of  your  own,  last  year,  last  month,  last  week  ? 

It  was  an  unhappy  life  that  I lived,  and  its  one  dominant  anxiety,  towering  ovet 
all  its  other  anxieties  like  a high  mountain  above  a range  of  mountains,  never  dis- 
appeared  from  my  view.  Still,  no  new  cause  for  fear  arose.  Let  me  start  from 
my  bed  as  I would,  with  the  terror  fresh  upon  me  that  he  was  discovered  ; let  me 
sit  listening  as  I would,  with  dread  for  Herbert’s  returning  step  at  night,  lest  it 
should  be  fleeter  than  ordinary,  and  winged  with  evil  news;  for  all  that,  and  much 
^aore  to  like  purpose,  the  round  of  things  went  on.  Condemned  to  inaction  and 
a state  of  constant  restlessness  and  suspense,  I rowed  about  in  my  boat,  and 
waited,  waited,  waited,  as  I best  could. 

There  were  states  of  the  tide  when,  having  been  down  the  river,  I could  not  get 
back  through  the  eddy-chafed  arches  and  starlings  of  old  London  Bridge;  then,  I 
left  my  boat  at  a wharf  near  the  Custom  House,  to  be  brought  up  afterwards  to 
the  Temple  stairs.  I was  not  averse  to  doing  this,  as  it  served  to  make  me  and 
my  boat  a commoner  incident  among  the  water-side  people  there.  From  this 
slight  occasion,  sprang  two  meetings  that  I have  now  to  tell  of. 

One  afternoon,  late  in  the  month  of  February,  I came  ashore  at  the  wharf  at 
dusk.  I had  pulled  down  as  far  as  Greenwich  with  the  ebb  tide,  and  had  turned 
with  the  lide.  It  had  been  a fine  bright  day,  but  had  become  foggy  as  the  sun 
dropped,  and  I had  had  to  feel  my  way  back  among  the  shipping  pretty  carefully. 
Both  in  going  and  returning,  I had  seen  the  signal  in  his  window,  All  well. 

As  it  was  a raw  evening  and  I was  cold,  I thought  I would  comfort  myseli 
with  dinner  at  once  ; and  as  I had  hours  of  dejection  and  solitude  before  me  if 
I went  home  to  the  Temple,  I thought  I would  afterwards  go  to  the  play.  The 
theatre  where  Mr.  Wopsle  had  achieved  his  questionable  triumph,  was  in  that 
waterside  neighbourhood  (it  is  nowhere  now),  and  to  that  theatre  I resolved  to 
go.  I was  aware  that  Mr.  Wopsle  had  not  succeeded  in  reviving  the  Drama,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  had  rather  partaken  of  its  decline.  He  had  been  ominously 
heard  of,  through  the  playbills,  as  a faithful  Black,  in  connexion  with  a little  girl 
of  noble  birth,  and  a monkey.  And  Herbert  had  seen  him  as  a predatory  Tartar, 


The  Nautical  Drama . 


445 


of  comic  propensities,  with  a face  like  a red  brick,  and  an  outrageous  hat  all  ovei 
bells. 

I dined  at  wiu-.t  Herbert  and  I used  to  call  a Geographical  chop-house — where 
there  were  maps  of  the  world  in  porter-pot  rims  on  every  half-yard  of  the  table- 
cloths, and  charts  of  gravy  on  every  one  of  the  knives — to  this  day  there  is 
scarcely  a single  chop-house  within  the  Lord  Mayor’s  dominions  which  is  not 
Geographical — and  wore  out  the  time  in  dozing  over  crumbs,  staring  at  gas, 
and  baking  in  a hot  blast  of  dinners.  By-and-by,  I roused  myself  and  went  to 
the  play. 

There,  I found  a virtuous  boatswain  in  his  Majesty’s  service — a most  excellent 
man,  though  I could  have  wished  his  trousers  not  quite  so  tight  in  some  places 
and  not  quite  so  loose  in  others — who  knocked  all  the  little  men’s  hats  over  their 
eyes,  though  he  was  very  generous  and  brave,  and  who  wouldn’t  hear  of  any- 
body’s paying  taxes,  though  he  was  very  patriotic.  He  had  a bag  of  money  in  his 
pocket,  like  a pudding  in  the  cloth,  and  on  that  property  married  a young  person 
in  bed-furniture,  with  great  rejoicings  ; the  whole  population  of  Portsmouth  (nine 
in  number  at  the  last  Census)  turning  out  on  the  beach,  to-  rub  their  own  hands 
and  shake  everybody  else’s,  and  sing,  “ Fill,  fill !”  A certain  dark-complexioned 
Swab,  however,  who  wouldn’t  fill,  or  do  anything  else  that  was  proposed  to  him, 
and  whose  heart  was  openly  stated  (by  the  boatswain)  to  be  as  black  as  his  figure- 
head, proposed  to  two  other  Swabs  to  get  all  mankind  into  difficulties  ; which  was 
so  effectually  done  (the  Swab  family  having  considerable  political  influence)  that 
it  took  half  the  evening  to  set  things  right,  and  then  it  was  only  brought  about 
through  an  honest  little  grocer  with  a white  hat,  black  gaiters,  and  red  nose, 
getting  into  a clock,  with  a gridiron,  and  listening,  and  coming  out,  and  knocking 
everybody  down  from  behind  with  the  gridiron  whom  he  couldn’t  confute  with 
what  he  had  overheard.  This  led  to  Mr.  Wopsle’s  (who  had  never  been  heard  of 
before)  coming  in  with  a star  and  garter  on,  as  a plenipotentiary  of  great  power 
direct  from  the  Admiralty,  to  say  that  the  Swabs  were  all  to  go  to  prison  on  the 
spot,  and  that  he  had  brought  the  boatswain  down  the  Union  Jack,  as  a slight 
acknowledgment  of  his  public  services.  The  boatswain,  unmanned  for  the  first 
time,  respectfully  dried  his  eyes  on  the  Jack,  and  then  cheering  up  and  addressing 
Mr.  Wopsle  as  Your  Honour,  solicited  permission  to  take  him  by  the  fin.  Mr. 
Wopsle  conceding  his  fin  with  a gracious  dignity,  was  immediately  shoved  into  a 
dusty  corner  while  everybody  danced  a hornpipe  ; and  from  that  corner,  surveying 
the  public  with  a discontented  eye,  became  aware  of  me. 

The  second  piece  was  the  last  new  grand  comic  Christmas  pantomime,  in  the 
first  scene  of  which,  it  pained  me  to  suspect  that  I detected  Mr.  Wopsle  with  red 
worsted  legs  under  a highly  magnified  phosphoric  countenance  and  a shock  of  red 
curtain-fringe  for  his  hair,  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  thunderbolts  in  a mine, 
and  displaying  great  cowardice  when  his  gigantic  master  came  home  (very  hoarse) 
to  dinner.  But  he  presently  presented  himself  under  worthier  circumstances  ; for, 
the  Genius  of  Youthful  Love  being  in  want  of  assistance — on  account  of  the 
parental  brutality  of  an  ignorant  farmer  who  opposed  the  choice  of  his  daughter’! 
heart,  by  purposely  falling  upon  the  object  in  a flour  sack,  out  of  the  first-floor 
window — summoned  a sententious  Enchanter;  and  he,  coming  up  from  the 
antipodes  rather  unsteadily,  after  an  apparently  violent  journey,  proved  to  be  Mr. 
Wopsle  in  a high-crowned  hat,  with  a necromantic  work  in  one  volume  under  his 
arm.  The  business  of  this  enchanter  on  earth,  being  principally  to  be  talked  at, 
sung  at,  bulled  at,  danced  at,  and  flashed  at  with  fires  of  various  colours,  he  had 
a good  deal  of  time  on  his  hands.  And  I observed  with  great  surprise,  that  he 
devoted  it  to  staring  in  my  direction  as  if  he  were  lost  in  amazement, 

There  was  something  so  remarkable  in  the  increasing  glare  of  Mr.  Wopsle’s 


446 


Great  Expectations . 


eye,  and  he  seemed  to  be  turning  so  many  things  over  in  his  mind  and  to  grow 
so  confused,  that  I could  not  make  it  out.  I sat  thinking  of  it,  long  after  he  had 
ascended  to  the  clouds  in  a large  watch-case,  and  still  I could  not  make  it  out.  I 
was  still  thinking  of  it  when  I came  out  of  the  theatre  an  hour  afterwards,  and 
found  him  waiting  for  me  near  the  door. 

“ How  do  you  do  ?”  said  I,  shaking  hands  with  him  as  we  turned  down  the 
street  together.  “ I saw  that  you  saw  me.” 

“ Saw  you,  Mr.  Pip  !”  he  returned.  “ Yes,  of  course  I saw  you.  But  who  else 
was  there  ?” 

“ Who  else  ?” 

“ It  is  the  strangest  thing,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  drifting  into  his  lost  look  again  ; 
“ and  yet  I could  swear  to  him.” 

Becoming  alarmed,  I entreated  Mr.  Wopsle  to  explain  his  meaning. 

“Whether  I should  have  noticed  him  at  first  but  for  your  being  there,”  said 
Mr.  Wopsle,  going  on  in  the  same  lost  way,  “ I can’t  be  positive  ; yet  I think 
I should.” 

Involuntarily  I looked  round  me,  as  I was  accustomed  to  look  round  me  when 
I went  home  ; for,  these  mysterious  words  gave  me  a chill. 

“ Oh  ! He  can’t  be  in  sight,”  said  Mr.  Wopsle.  “ He  went  out,  before  I went 
off ; I saw  him  go.” 

Having  the  reason  that  I had  for  being  suspicious,  I even  suspected  this  poor 
actor.  I mistrusted  a design  tQ  entrap  me  into  some  admission.  Therefore,  I 
glanced  at  him  as  we  walked  on  together,  but  said  nothing. 

“I  had  a ridiculous  fancy  that  he  must  be  witn  you,  Mr.  Pip,  till  I saw  that 
you  were  quite  unconscious  of  him,  sitting  behind  you  there  like  a ghost.” 

My  former  chill  crept  over  me  again,  but  I was  resolved  not  to  speak  yet,  for  it 
was  quite  consistent  with  his  words  that  he  might  be  set  on  to  induce  me  to  con- 
nect these  references  with  Provis.  Of  course,  I was  perfectly  sure  and  safe  that 
Provis  had  not  been  there. 

“ I dare  say  you  wonder  at  me,  Mr.  Pip  ; indeed,  I see  you  do.  But  it  is  so 
veiy  strange ! You’ll  hardly  believe  what  I am  going  to  tell  you.  I could  hardly 
believe  it  myself,  if  you  told  me.” 

“ Indeed  ?”  said  I. 

“No,  indeed.  Mr.  Pip,  you  remember  in  old  times  a certain  Christmas  Day, 
when  you  were  quite  a child,  and  I dined  at  Gargery’s,  and  some  soldiers  came 
to  the  door  to  get  a pair  of  handcuffs  mended  ?” 

“ I remember  it  very  well.” 

“And  you  remember  that  there  was  a chase  after  two  convicts,  and  that  we 
joined  in  it,  and  that  Gargery  took  you  on  his  back,  and  that  I took  the  lead  and 
you  kept  up  with  me  as  well  as  you  could  ?” 

“ I remember  it  all  very  well.”  Better  than  he  thought — except  the  last  clause. 
“ And  you  remember  that  we  came  up  with  the  two  in  a ditch,  and  that  there 
was  a scuffle  between  them,  and  that  one  of  them  had  been  severely  handled  and 
much  mauled  about  the  face,  by  the  other  ?” 

“ I see  it  all  before  me.” 

“And  that  the  soldiers  lighted  torches,  and  put  the  two  in  the  centre,  and 
that  we  went  on  to  see  the  last  of  them,  over  the  black  marshes,  with  the  torch- 
light shining  on  their  faces — I am  particular  about  that ; with  the  torchlight 
shining  on  their  faces,  when  there  was  an  outer  ring  of  dark  night  all  about 
us  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  I.  “ I remember  all  that.” 

“Then,  Mr.  Pip,  one  of  those  two  prisoners  sat  behind  you  to-night.  I savi 
him  over  your  shoulder.” 


Mr.  Wopsle  alarms  me.  447 

**  Steady  !”  I thought.  I asked  him  then,  “ Which  of  the  two  do  you  suppose 
you  saw  ?” 

“ The  one  who  had  been  mauled,”  he  answered  readily,  “ and  I’ll  swear  I saw 
lim  ! The  more  I think  of  him,  the  more  certain  I am  of  him.” 

“ This  is  very  curious !”  said  I,  with  the  best  assumption  I could  put  on,  of  its 
>eing  nothing  more  to  me.  “ Very  curious  indeed  !” 

I cannot  exaggerate  the  enhanced  disquiet  into  which  this  conversation  threw 
ne,  or  the  special  and  peculiar  terror  I felt  at  Compeyson’s  having  been  behind 
ne  “ like  a ghost.”  For,  if  he  had  ever  been  out  of  my  thoughts  for  a few 
noments  together  since  the  hiding  had  begun,  it  was  in  those  very  moments  when 
he  was  closest  to  me ; and  to  think  that  I should  be  so  unconscious  and  off  my 
guard  after  all  my  care,  was  as  if  I had  shut  an  avenue  of  a hundred  doors  to  keep 
jm  out,  and  then  had  found  him  at  my  elbow.  I could  not  doubt  either  that  he 
A/as  there,  because  I was  there,  and  that  however  slight  an  appearance  of  danger 
there  might  be  about  us,  danger  was  always  near  and  active. 

I put  such  questions  to  Mr.  Wopsle  as,  When  did  the  man  come  in  ? He  could 
not  tell  me  that ; he  saw  me,  and  over  my  shoulder  he  saw  the  man.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  seen  him  for  some  time  that  he  began  to  identify  him  ; but  he  had 
from  the  first  vaguely  associated  him  with  me,  and  known  him  as  somehow 
belonging  to  me  in  the  old  village  time.  How  was  he  dressed  ? Prosperously, 
but  not  noticeably  otherwise ; he  thought,  in  black.  Was  his  face  at  all  dis- 
figured ? No,  he  believed  not.  I believed  not,  too,  for  although  in  my  brooding 
state  I had  taken  no  especial  notice  of  the  people  behind  me,  I thought  it  likely 
that  a face  at  all  disfigured  would  have  attracted  my  attention. 

When  Mr.  Wopsle  had  imparted  to  me  all  that  he  could  recall  or  I extract,  and 
when  I had  treated  him  to  a little  appropriate  refreshment  after  the  fatigues  of  the 
evening,  we  parted.  It  was  between  twelve  and  one  o’clock  when  I reached  the 
Temple,  and  the  gates  were  shut.  No  one  was  near  me  when  I went  in  and 
went  home. 

Herbert  had  come  in,  and  we  held  a very  serious  council  by  the  fire.  But 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  saving  to  communicate  to  Wemmick  what  I had 
that  night  found  out,  and  to  remind  him  that  we  waited  for  his  hint.  As  I 
thought  that  I might  compromise  him  if  I went  too  often  to  the  Castle,  I made 
this  communication  by  letter.  I wrote  it  before  I went  to  bed  and  went  out  and 
posted  it ; and  again  no  one  was  near  me.  Herbert  and  I agreed  that  we  could 
do  nothing  else  but  be  very  cautious.  And  we  were  very  cautious  indeed  —more 
cautious  than  before,  if  that  were  possible — and  I for  my  part  never  went  near 
Chinks’s  Basin,  except  when  I rowed  by,  and  then  I only  looked  at  Mill  Pond 
Bank  as  I looked  at  anything  else. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

The  second  of  the  two  meetings  referred  to  in  the  last  chapter,  occurred  about  a 
week  after  the  first.  I had  again  left  my  boat  at  the  wharf  below  Bridge ; the 
time  was  an  hour  earlier  in  the  afternoon ; and,  undecided  where  to  dine,  I had 
strolled  up  into  Cheapside,  and  was  strolling  along  it,  surely  the  most  unsettled 
person  in  all  the  busy  concourse,  when  a large  hand  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder,  by 
some  one  overtaking  me.  It  was  Mr.  Jaggers’s  hand,  and  he  passed  it  through  my 
arm. 

“As  we  are  going  in  the  same  direction,  Pip,  we  may  walk  together.  Wher* 
are  you  bound  lor  ?” 


Great  Expectations 


<l\o 


&/  .he  Temple,  I think,”  said  I. 

“ Don’t  vt  u know  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ Well,”  I .returned,  glad  for  once  to  get  the  better  of  him  in  cross-examination, 
u I do  not  know,  for  I have  not  made  up  my  mind.” 

“ You  are  go:ng  to  dine  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “You  don’t  mind  admitting 
that,  I suppose  ?” 

“No,”  1 returned,  “ I don’t  mind  admitting  that.” 

“ And  are  not  engaged  ?” 

“1  don’t  mind  admitting  also,  that  I am  not  engaged.** 

“ Then,”  said  Mr.  Jagjers,  “ come  and  dine  with  me.” 

I was  going  to  excuse  myself,  when  he  added,  “ Wemmick ’s  coming.”  So  I 
changed  my  excuse  into  an  acceptance — the  few  words  I had  uttered  serving  for 
the  beginning  of  either — and  we  went  along  Cheapside  and  slanted  off  to  Little 
Britain,  while  the  lights  were  springing  up  brilliantly  in  the  shop  windows,  and 
the  street  lamp-lighters,  scarcely  finding  ground  enough  to  plant  their  ladders  on 
in  the  midst  of  the  afternoon’s  bustle,  were  skipping  up  and  down  and  running  in 
and  out,  opening  more  red  eyes  in  the  gathering  fog  than  my  rushlight  tower  at 
the  Hummums  had  opened  white  eyes  in  the  ghostly  wall. 

At  the  office  in  Little  Britain  there  was  the  usual  letter- writing,  hand-washing, 
candle-snuffing,  and  safe-locking,  that  closed  the  business  of  the  day.  As  I stood 
idle  by  Mr.  Jaggers’s  fire,  its  rising  and  falling  flame  made  the  two  casts  on  the 
shelf  look  as  if  they  were  playing  a diabolical  game  at  bo-peep  with  me  ; while  the 
pair  of  coarse  fat  office  candles  that  dimly  lighted  Mr.  Jaggers  as  he  wrote  in  a 
coi  ner,  were  decorated  with  dirty  winding-sheets,  as  if  in  remembrance  of  a host 
of  hanged  clients. 

We  went  to  Gerrard-street,  all  three  together,  in  a hackney-coach  : and  as  soon 
as  we  got  there,  dinner  was  served.  Although  I should  not  have  thought  of 
making,  in  that  place,  the  most  distant  reference  by  so  much  as  a look  to 
Wemmick’ s Walworth  sentiments,  yet  I should  Lave  had  no  objection  to  catching 
his  eye  now  and  then  in  a friendly  way.  But  it  was  not  to  be  done.  He  turned 
his  eyes  on  Mr.  Jaggers  whenever  he  raised  them  from  the  table,  and  was  as  dry 
and  distant  to  me  as  if  there  were  twin  Wemmicks  and  this  was  the  wrong  one. 

“ Did  you  send  that  note  of  Miss  Havisham’s  to  Mr.  Pip,  Wemmick?”  Mr. 
Jaggers  asked,  soon  after  we  began  dinner. 

“ No,  sir,”  returned  Wemmick  ; “it  was  going  by  post,  when  you  brought  Mr. 
Pip  into  the  office.  Here  it  is.”  He  handed  it  to  his  principal,  instead  of  to  me. 

“It’s  a note  of  two  lines,  Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  handing  it  on,  “ sent  up  to 
me  by  Miss  Havisham,  on  account  of  her  not  being  sure  of  your  address.  She 
tells  me  that  she  wants  to  see  you  on  a little  matter  of  business  you  mentioned  to 
her.  You’ll  go  down  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  I,  casting  my  eyes  over  the  note,  which  was  exaufly  in  those  terms. 

“ When  do  you  think  of  going  down  ?” 

“I  have  an  impending  engagement,”  said  I,  glancing  at  Wemmick,  who  wa3 
putting  fish  into  the  post-office,  “ that  renders  me  rather  unce»h.Li  of  my  time. 
At  once,  I think.” 

“ If  Mr.  Pip  has  the  intention  of  going  at  once,”  said  Wemmick  to  Mr. 
Jaggers,  “ he  needn’t  write  an  answer,  you  know.” 

Receiving  this  as  an  intimation  that  it  was  best  not  to  delay,  I settled  that  I 

v ould  go  to-morrow,  and  said  so.  Wemmick  drank  a glass  of  wine  and  looked 

vi  ith  a grimly  satisfied  air  at  Mr.  Jaggers,  but  not  at  me. 

“ So,  Pip  ! Our  friend  the  Spider,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “has  played  his  cards. 
J <e  has  won  the  pool.” 

It  was  as  much  as  I could  do  to  assent. 


449 


I know  now  of  whom  Estella  reminded  me, 

**  Hah  ! He  is  a promising  fellow — in  his  way — but  he  may  not  have  it  all  his 
own  way.  The  stronger  will  win  in  the  end,  but  the  stronger  has  to  be  found  out 
first.  If  he  should  turn  to,  and  beat  her ” 

“ Surely,”  I interrupted,  with  a burning  face  and  heart,  “ you  do  not  seriously 
think  that  he  is  scoundrel  enough  for  that,  Mr.  Jaggers  ? ” 

“ I didn’t  say  so,  Pip.  I am  putting  a case.  If  he  should  turn  to  and  beat  her, 
ne  may  possibly  get  the  strength  on  his  side  ; if  it  should  be  a question  of  intellect, 
he  certainly  will  not.  It  would  be  chance  work  to  give  an  opinion  how  a fellow 
of  that  sort  will  turn  out  in  such  circumstances,  because  it’s  a toss-up  between  two 
results.” 

“ May  I ask  what  they  are  ? ” 

“ A fellow  like  our  friend  the  Spider,”  answered  Mr.  Jaggers,  “ either  beats,  or 
cringes.  Pie  may  cringe  and  growl,  or  cringe  and  not  growl;  but  he  either  beats 
or  cringes.  Ask  Wemmick  his  opinion.” 

“Either  beats  or  cringes,”  said  Wemmick,  not  at  all  addressing  himself  to 

me. 

“ So,  here’s  to  Mrs.  Bentley  Drummle,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  taking  a decanter  of 
choicer  wine  from  his  dumb-waiter,  and  filling  for  each  of  us  and  for  himself. 
“ and  may  the  question  of  supremacy  be  settled  to  the  lady’s  satisfaction  ! To  the 
satisfaction  of  the  lady  and  the  gentleman,  it  never  will  be.  Now,  Molly,  Molly, 
Molly,  Molly,  how  slow  you  are  to-day  ! ” 

She  was  at  his  elbow  when  he  addressed  her,  putting  a dish  upon  the  table. 
As  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  it,  she  fell  back  a step  or  two,  nervously  mutter- 
ing some  excuse.  And  a certain  action  of  her  fingers  as  she  spoke  arrested  my 
attention, 

“ What’s  the  matter  ? ” said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“Nothing.  Only  the  subject  we  were  speaking  of,”  said  I,  “ was  rather  pain- 
ful to  me,” 

The  action  of  her  fingers  was  like  the  action  of  knitting.  She  stood  looking  at 
her  master,  not  understanding  whether  she  was  free  to  go,  or  whether  he  had 
more  to  say  to  her  and  would  call  her  backdf  she  did  go.  Her  look  was  very 
intent.  Surely,  I had  seen  exactly  such  eyes  and  such  hands,  on  a memorable 
occasion  very  lately ! 

He  dismissed  her,  and  she  glided  out  of  the  room.  But  she  remained  before 
me,  as  plainly  as  if  she  were  still  there.  I looked  at  those  hands,  I looked  at 
those  eyes,  I looked  at  that  flowing  hair ; and  I compared  them  with  other  hands, 
other  eyes,  other  hair,  that  I knew  of,  and  with  what  those  might  be  after  twenty 
years  of  a brutal  husband  and  a stormy  life.  I looked  again  at  those  hands  and 
eyes  of  the  housekeeper,  and  thought  of  the  inexplicable  feeling  that  had  come 
over  me  when  I last  walked — not  alone — in  the  ruined  garden,  and  through  the 
deserted  brewery.  I thought  how  the  same  feeling  had  come  back  when  I saw  a 
face  looking  at  me,  and  a hand  waving  to  me  from  a stage-coach  window ; and 
how  it  had  come  back  again  and  had  flashed  about  me  like  Lightning,  when  I had 
passed  in  a carriage — not  alone — through  a sudden  glare  of  light  in  a dark  street. 
I thought  how  one  link  of  association  had  helped  that  identification  in  the  theatre, 
and  how  such  a link,  wanting  before,  had  been  riveted  for  me  now,  when  I had 
passed  by  a chance  swift  from  Estella’s  name  to  the  fingers  with  their  knitting 
action,  and  the  attentive  eyes.  And  I felt  absolutely  certain  that  this  woman  was 
Estella’s  mother. 

Mr.  Jaggers  had  seen  me  with  Estella,  and  was  not  likely  to  have  missed  the 
sentiments  I had  been  at  no  pains  to  conceal.  He  nodded  when  I said  the  subject 
was  painful  to  me,  clapped  me  on  the  back,  put  round  the  wine  again,  and  went 
on  with  his  dinner. 

Q Q 


45° 


Great  Expectations. 


Only  twice  more  did  the  housekeeper  reappear,  and  then  her  stay  in  the  room 
was  very  short,  and  Mr.  Jaggers  was  sharp  with  her.  But  her  hands  were 
Estella’s  hands,  and  her  eyes  were  Estella’s  eyes,  and  if  she  had  reappeared  a 
hundred  times  I could  have  been  neither  more  sure  nor  less  sure  that  my  con- 
viction was  the  truth. 

It  was  a dull  evening,  for  Wemmick  drew  his  wine  when  it  came  round,  quit* 
as  a matter  of  business — just  as  he  might  have  drawn  his  salary  when  that  came 
round — and  with  his  eyes  on  his  chief,  sat  in  a state  of  perpetual  readiness  foi 
cross-examination.  As  to  the  quantity  of  wine,  his  post-office  was  as  indifferent 
and  ready  as  any  other  post-office  for  its  quantity  of  letters.  From  my  point  of 
view,  he  was  the  wrong  twin  all  the  time,  and  only  externally  like  the  Wemmick 
of  Walworth. 

We  took  our  leave  early,  and  left  together.  Even  when  we  were  groping 
among  Mr.  Jaggers’s  stock  of  boots  for  our  hats,  I felt  that  the  right  twin  was  on 
his  way  back  ; and  we  had  not  gone  half  a dozen  yards  down  Gerrard-street  in  the 
Walworth  direction  before  I found  that  I was  walking  arm-in-arm  with  the  right 
twin,  and  that  the  wrong  twin  had  evaporated  into  the  evening  air. 

“Well!  ” said  Wemmick,  “ that’s  over!  He’s  a wonderful  man,  without  his 
living  likeness  ; but  I feel  that  I have  to  screw  myself  up  when  I dine  with  him— 
and  I dine  more  comfortably  unscrewed. ” 

I felt  that  this  was  a good  statement  of  the  case,  and  told  him  so. 

“ Wouldn’t  say  it  to  anybody  but  yourself,”  he  answered.  “ I know  that  what 
is  said  between  you  and  me,  goes  no  further.” 

I asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen  Miss  Havisham’s  adopted  daughter,  Mrs. 
Bentley  Drummle  ? He  said  no.  To  avoid  being  too  abrupt,  I then  spoke  of 
the  Aged,  and  of  Miss  Skiffins.  He  looked  rather  sly  when  I mentioned  Miss 
Skiffins,  and  stopped  in  the  street  to  blow  his  nose,  with  a roll  of  the  head  and  a 
flourish  not  quite  free  from  latent  boastfulness. 

“Wemmick,”  said  I,  “ do  you  remember  telling  me,  before  I first  went  to  Mr. 
Jaggers’s  private  house,  to  notice  that  housekeeper?  ” 

“ Did  I ? ” he  replied.  “ Ah,  I dare  say  I did.  Deuce  take  me,”  he  added 
sullenly,  “ I know  I did.  I find  I am  not  quite  unscrewed  yet.” 

“ A wild  beast  tamed,  you  called  her  ? ” 

“ And  what  did  j you  call  her  ? ” 

“The  same.  How  did  Mr.  Jaggers  tame  her,  Wemmick  ? ” 

“ That’s  his  secret.  She  has  been  with  him  many  a long  year.” 

“ I wish  you  would  tell  me  her  story.  I feel  a particular  interest  in  being 
acquainted  with  it.  You  know  that  what  is  said  between  you  and  me  goes  no 
further.” 

“Well ! ” Wemmick  replied,  “I  don’t  know  her  story — that  is,  I don’t  know 
all  of  it.  But  what  I do  know,  I’ll  tell  you.  We  are  in  our  private  and  personal 
capacities,  of  course.” 

“ Of  course.” 

“ A score  or  so  of  years  ago,  that  woman  was  tried  at  the  Old  Bailey  for  murder 
and  was  acquitted.  She  was  a very  handsome  young  woman,  and  I believe  had 
some  gipsy  blood  in  her.  Anyhow,  it  was  hot  enough  when  it  was  up,  as  you 
may  suppose.” 

“ But  she  was  acquitted.” 

“Mr.  Jaggers  was  for  her,”  pursued  Wemmick,  with  a look  full  of  meaning* 
“ and  worked  the  caSe  in  a way  quite  astonishing.  It  was  a desperate  case,  and 
it  was  comparatively  early  days  with  him  then,  and  he  worked  it  to  general 
admiration ; in  fact,  it  may  almost  be  said  to  have  made  him.  He  worked  it  him- 
self at  the  police-office,  day  after  day  for  many  days,  contending  against  even  a 


Information  from  Wemmick . 


451 

committal ; and  at  the  trial  where  he  couldn’t  work  it  himself,  sat  under  counsel, 
and — every  one  knew — put  in  all  the  salt  and  pepper.  The  murdered  person  was 
a woman  ; a woman,  a good  ten  years  older,  very  much  larger,  and  very  much 
stronger.  It  was  a case  of  jealousy.  They  both  led  tramping  lives,  and  this 
woman  in  Gerrard-street  here,  had  been  married  very  young,  over  the  broomstick 
(as  we  say),  to  a tramping  man,  and  was  a perfect  fury  in  point  of  jealousy.  The 
murdered  woman — more  a match  for  the  man,  certainly,  in  point  of  years — was 
found  dead  in  a barn  near  Hounslow  Heath.  There  had  been  a violent  struggle, 
perhaps  a fight.  She  was  bruised  and  scratched  and  torn,  and  had  been  held  b) 
the  throat  at  last  and  choked.  Now,  there  was  no  reasonable  evidence  to  im- 
plicate any  person  but  this  woman,  and,  on  the  improbabilities  of  her  having  been 
able  to  do  it,  Mr.  Jaggers  principally  rested  his  case.  You  may  be  sure,”  said 
Wemmick,  touching  me  on  the  sleeve,  “ that  he  never  dwelt  upon  the  strength  oi 
her  hands  then,  though  he  sometimes  does  now.” 

I had  told  Wemmick  of  his  showing  us  her  wrists,  that  day  of  the  dinner  party. 

“ Well,  sir  ! ” Wemmick  went  on  ; “ it  happened — happened,  don’t  you  see  ? 
— that  this  woman  was  so  very  artfully  dressed  from  the  time  of  her  apprehension, 
that  she  looked  much  slighter  than  she  really  was  ; in  particular,  her  sleeves  are 
always  remembered  to  have  been  so  skilfully  contrived  that  her  arms  had  quite  a 
delicate  look.  She  had  only  a bruise  or  two  about  her — nothing  fora  tramp — but 
the  backs  of  her  hands  were  lacerated,  and  the  question  was,  was  it  with  finger- 
nails ? Now,  Mr.  Jaggers  showed  that  she  had  struggled  through  a great  lot  ot 
brambles  which  were  not  as  high  as  her  face  ; but  which  she  could  not  ha^e  got 
through  and  kept  her  hands  out  of;  and  bits  of  those  brambles  were  actually 
found  in  her  skin  and  put  in  evidence,  as  well  as  the  fact  that  the  brambles  in 
question  were  found  on  examination  to  have  been  broken  through,  and  to  have 
little  shreds  of  her  dress  and  little  spots  of  blood  upon  them  here  and  there.  But 
the  boldest  point  he  made,  was  this.  It  was  attempted  to  be  set  up  in  proof  ol 
her  jealousy,  that  she  was  under  strong  suspicion  of  having,  at  about  the  time  of 
the  murder,  frantically  destroyed  her  child  by  this  man — some  three  years  old— to 
revenge  herself  upon  him.  Mr.  Jaggers  worked  that,  in  this  way.  * We  say  these 
are  not  marks  of  finger-nails,  but  marks  of  brambles,  and  we  show  you  the 
brambles.  You  say  they  are  marks  of  finger-nails,  and  you  set  up  the  hypothesis 
that  she  destroyed  her  child.  You  must  accept  all  consequences  of  that  hypothesis. 
For  anything  we  know,  she  may  have  destroyed  her  child,  and  the  child  in 
clinging  to  her  may  have  scratched  her  hands.  What  then  ? You  are  not  trying  her 
for  the  murder  of  her  child ; why  don’t  you  ? As  to  this  case,  if  you  will  have 
scratches,  we  say  that,  for  anything  we  know,  you  may  have  accounted  for  them, 
assuming  for  the  sake  of  argument  that  you  have  not  invented  them  ? ’ To  sum  up, 
sir,”  said  Wemmick,  “ Mr.  Jaggers  was  altogether  too  many  for  the  Jury,  and 
they  gave  in.” 

“ Has  she  been  in  his  service  ever  since  ? ” 

“Yes;  but  not  only  that,”  said  Wemmick,  “she  went  into  his  service 
immediately  after  her  acquittal,  tamed  as  she  is  now.  She  has  since  been  taught 
one  thing  and  another  in  the  way  of  her  duties,  but  she  was  tamed  from  the 
beginning.” 

“ Do  you  remember  the  sex  of  the  child  ? ” 

“ Said  to  have  been  a girl.” 

“You  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me  to-night  ? 99 

“Nothing.  1 got  your  letter  and  destroyed  it.  Nothing.” 

We  ex 'hanged  a cordial  Good  Night,  and  I went  home,  with  new  matter  for  mj 
thoughts,  though  with  no  relief  from  the  old. 


Great  Expectations . 


<5* 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Putting  Miss  Havisham’s  note  in  my  pocket,  that  it  might  serve  as  my 
credentials  for  so  soon  reappearing  at  Satis  House,  in  case  her  waywardness  should 
lead  her  to  express  any  surprise  at  seeing  me,  I went  down  again  by  the  coach 
next  day.  But,  I alighted  at  the  Halfway  House,  and  breakfasted  there,  and 
walked  the  rest  of  the  distance  ; foi , I sought  to  get  into  the  town  quietly  by  the 
unfrequented  ways,  and  to  leave  it  in  the  same  manner. 

The  best  light  of  the  day  was  gone  when  I passed  along  the  quiet  echoing  courts 
behind  the  High-street.  The  nooks  of  ruin  where  the  old  monks  had  once  had 
their  refectories  and  gardens,  and  where  the  strong  walls  were  now  pressed  into 
the  sendee  of  humble  sheds  and  stables,  were  almost  as  silent  as  the  old  monks  in 
their  graves.  The  cathedral  chimes  had  at  once  a sadder  and  a more  remote 
sound  to  me,  as  I hurried  on  avoiding  observation,  than  they  had  ever  had  before; 
so,  the  swell  of  the  old  organ  was  borne  to  my  ears  like  funeral  music  ; and  the 
rooks,  as  they  hovered  about  the  grey  tower  and  swung  in  the  bare  high  trees  of 
the  priory-garden,  seemed  to  call  to  me  that  the  place  was  changed,  and  that 
Estella  was  gone  out  of  it  for  ever. 

An  elderly  woman  whom  I had  seen  before  as  one  of  the  servants  who  lived  in 
the  supplementary  house  across  the  back  court-yard,  opened  the  gate.  The  lighted 
candle  stood  in  the  dark  passage  within,  as  of  old,  and  I took  it  up  and  ascended 
the  staircase  alone.  Miss  Havisham  was  not  in  her  own  room,  but  was  in  the 
larger  room  across  the  landing.  Looking  in  at  the  door,  after  knocking  in  vain,  I 
saw  her  sitting  on  the  hearth  in  a ragged  chair,  close  before,  and  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of,  the  ashy  fire. 

Doing  as  I had  often  done,  I went  in,  and  stood,  touching  the  old  chimney- 
piece,  where  she  could  see  me  when  she  raised  her  eyes.  There  was  an  air  of  utter 
loneliness  upon  her,  that  would  have  moved  me  to  pity  though  she  had  wilfully 
done  me  a deeper  injury  than  I could  charge  her  with.  As  I stood  compassion- 
ating her,  and  thinking  how  in  the  progress  of  time  I too  had  come  to  be  a part  of 
the  wrecked  fortunes  of  that  house,  her  eyes  rested  on  me.  She  stared,  and  said 
in  a low  voice,  “ Is  it  real  ? ” 

“It  is  I,  Pip.  Mr.  Jaggers  gave  me  your  note  yesterday,  and  I have  lost  no 

time.” 

“ Th  ank  you . T h ank  you . ’ ’ 

As  I brought  another  of  the  ragged  chairs  to  the  hearth  and  sat  down,  I 
remarked  a new  expression  on  her  face,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  me. 

“ I want,”  she  said,  “ to  pursue  that  subject  you  mentioned  to  me  when  yon 
were  last  here,  and  to  show  you  that  I am  not  all  stone.  But  perhaps  you  can 
never  believe,  now,  that  there  is  anything  human  in  my  heart  ? ” 

When  I said  some  reassuring  words,  she  stretched  out  her  tremulous  right  hand, 
as  though  she  was  going  to  touch  me  ; but  she  recalled  it  again  before  I under- 
stood the  action,  or  knew  how  to  receive  it. 

“ You  said,  speaking  for  your  friend,  that  you  could  tell  me  how  to  Ic 
something  useful  and  good.  Something  that  you  would  like  done,  is  it  not  ? ” 

“ Something  that  I would  like  done  very  very  much.” 

“What  is  it  ? ” 

I began  explaining  to  her  that  secret  history  of  the  partnership.  I had  not  got 
far  into  it,  when  I judged  from  her  looks  that  she  was  thinking  in  a discursive  way 
of  me,  rather  than  of  what  I said.  It  seemed  to  be  so,  for,  when  I stopped  speak- 
ing, many  moments  passed  before  she  showed  that  she  was  conscious  of  the  fact. 


A Loan  from  Miss  Havisham. 


453 


“ Do  you  break  off,”  she  asked  then,  with  her  former  air  of  being  afraid  of  me 
“because  you  hate  me  too  much  to  bear  to  speak  to  me  ?” 

“No,  no,”  I answered,  “how  can  you  think  so,  Miss  Havisham  ! I stoppec 
because  I thought  you  were  not  following  what  I said.” 

“ Perhaps  I was  not,”  she  answered,  putting  a hand  to  her  head.  “ Begin  again 
and  let  me  look  at  something  else.  Stay ! Now  tell  me.” 

She  set  her  hand  upon  her  stick,  in  the  resolute  way  that  sometimes  was  habi- 
tual to  her,  and  looked  at  the  fire  with  a strong  expression  of  forcing  herself  to 
attend.  I went  on  with  my  explanation,  and  told  her  how  I had  hoped  to  com- 
plete the  transaction  out  of  my  means,  but  how  in  this  I was  disappointed.  That 
part  of  the  subject  (I  reminded  her)  involved  matters  which  could  form  no  part  of 
my  explanation,  for  they  were  the  weighty  secrets  of  another. 

“ So  !”  said  she,  assenting  with  her  head,  but  not  looking  at  me.  “ And  how 
much  money  is  wanting  to  complete  the  purchase  ?” 

I was  rather  afraid  of  stating  it,  for  it  sounded  a large  sum.  “ Nine  hundred 
pounds.” 

“ If  I give  you  the  money  for  this  purpose,  will  you  keep  my  secret  as  you  have 
kept  your  own  ?” 

“Quite  as  faithfully.” 

“ And  your  mind  will  be  more  at  rest  ?” 

“ Much  more  at  rest.” 

“ Are  you  very  unhappy  now  ?” 

She  asked  this  question,  still  without  looking  at  me,  but  in  an  unwonted  tone  of 
sympathy.  I could  not  reply  at  the  moment,  for  my  voice  failed  me.  She  put 
her  left  arm  across  the  head  of  her  stick,  and  softly  laid  her  forehead  on  it. 

“ I am  far  from  happy,  Miss  Havisham  ; but  I have  other  causes  of  disquiet 
than  any  you  know  of.  They  are  the  secrets  I have  mentioned.” 

After  a little  while,  she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  the  fire  again. 

“ ’Tis  noble  in  you  to  tell  me  that  you  have  other  causes  of  unhappiness.  Is  it 
true  ?” 

“ Too  true.” 

“ Can  I only  serve  you,  Pip,  by  serving  your  friend  ? Regarding  that  as  done, 
k there  nothing  I can  do  for  you  yourself  ?” 

“Nothing.  I thank  you  for  the  question.  I thank  you  even  more  for  the  tone 
of  the  question.  But,  there  is  nothing.” 

She  presently  rose  from  her  seat,  and  looked  about  the  blighted  room  for  the 
means  of  writing.  There  were  none  there,  and  she  took  from  her  pocket  a yellow 
set  of  ivory  tablets,  mounted  in  tarnished  gold,  and  wrote  upon  them  with  a pencil 
in  a case  of  tarnished  gold  that  hung  from  her  neck. 

“ You  are  still  on  friendly  terms  with  Mr.  Jaggers  ?” 

“ Quite.  I dined  with  him  yesterday.” 

“ This  is  an  authority  to  him  to  pay  you  that  money,  to  lay  out  at  your  irrespon- 
sible discretion  for  your  friend.  I keep  no  money  here;  but  if  you  would  rather 
Mr.  Jaggers  knew  nothing  of  the  matter,  I will  send  it  to  you.” 

“ Thank  you,  Miss  Havisham;  I have  not  the  least  objection  to  receiving  it 
from  him.” 

She  read  me  what  she  had  written,  and  it  was  direct  and  clear,  and  evidently 
intended  to  absolve  me  from  any  suspicion  of  profiting  by  the  receipt  of  the 
money.  I took  the  tablets  from  her  hand,  and  it  trembled  again,  And  it  trembled 
more  as  she  took  off  the  chain  to  which  the  pencil  was  attached,  and  put  it  re 
mine.  All  this  she  did,  without  looking  at  me. 

“ My  name  is  on  th  i first  leaf.  If  you  can  ever  write  under  my  name,  ‘ I for 
give  her,5  though  evei  so  long  after  my  broken  heart  is  dust — pray  do  it !” 


Great  Expectation s. 


4^4 


“ O Miss  Havisham,”  said  I,  “I  can  do  it  now.  There  have  been  sore  mis- 
takes ; and  my  life  has  been  a blind  and  thankless  one ; and  I want  forgiveness 
and  direction  far  too  much,  to  be  bitter  with  you.” 

She  turned  her  face  to  me  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  averted  it,  and  to  my 
amazement,  I may  even  add  to  my  terror,  dropped  on  her  knees  at  my  feet ; with 
her  folded  hands  raised  to  me  in  the  manner  in  which,  when  her  poor  heart  was 
young  and  fresh  and  whole,  they  must  often  have  been  raised  to  Heaven  from  hei 
mother’s  side. 

To  see  her  with  her  white  hair  and  her  worn  face,  kneeling  at  my  feet,  gave  me 
a shock  through  all  my  frame.  I entreated  her  to  rise,  and  got  my  arms  about 
her  to  help  her  up  ; but  she  only  pressed  that  hand  of  mine  which  was  nearest  to 
her  grasp,  and  hung  her  head  over  it  and  wept.  I had  never  seen  her  shed  a tear 
before,  and  in  the  hope  that  the  relief  might  do  her  good,  I bent  over  her  without 
speaking.  She  was  not  kneeling  now,  but  was  down  upon  the  ground. 

“ O !”  she  cried,  despairingly.  “ What  have  I done  ! What  have  I done  !” 

“ If  you  mean,  Miss  Havisham,  what  have  you  done  to  injure  me,  let  me 
answer.  Very  little.  I should  have  loved  her  under  any  circumstances. — Is  she 
married  ?” 

“Yes  !” 

It  was  a needless  question,  for  a new  desolation  in  the  desolate  house  had  told 

me  so. 

“ What  have  I done  ! What  have  I done  !”  She  wrung  her  hands,  and 
crushed  her  white  hair,  and  returned  to  this  cry  over  and  over  again.  “What 
have  I done !” 

I knew  not  how  to  answer,  or  how  to  comfort  her.  That  she  had  done  a griev- 
ous thing  in  taking  an  impressionable  child  to  mould  into  the  form  that  her  wild 
resentment,  spurned  affection,  and  wounded  pride,  found  vengeance  in,  I knew  full 
well.  But  that,  in  shutting  out  the  light  of  day,  she  had  shut  out  infinitely  more  ; 
that,  in  seclusion,  she  had  secluded  herself  from  a thousand  natural  and  healing 
influences  ; that,  her  mind,  brooding  solitary,  had  grown  diseased,  as  all  minds  do 
and  must  and  will  that  reverse  the  appointed  order  of  their  Maker  ; I knew  equally 
well.  And  could  I look  upon  her  without  compassion,  seeing  her  punishment  in 
the  ruin  she  was,  in  her  profound  unfitness  for  this  earth  on  which  she  was  placed, 
in  the  vanity  of  sorrow  which  had  become  a master  mania,  like  the  vanity  of  peni- 
tence, the  vanity  of  remorse,  the  vanity  of  unworthiness,  and  other  monstrous 
vanities  that  have  been  curses  in  this  world  ? 

“ Until  you  spoke  to  her  the  other  day,  and  until  I saw  in  you  a looking-glass 
that  showed  me  what  I once  felt  myself,  I did  not  know  what  I had  done.  What 
have  I done ! What  have  I done  !”  And  so  again,  twenty,  fifty  times  over, 
What  had  she  done  ! 

“ Miss  Havisham,”  I said,  when  her  cry  had  died  away,  “ you  may  dismiss  me 
from  your  mind  and  conscience.  But  Estella  is  a different  case,  and  if  you  can 
ever  undo  any  scrap  of  what  you  have  done  amiss  in  keeping  a part  of  her  right 
nature  away  from  her,  it  will  be  better  to  do  that,  than  to  bemoan  the  past  through 
a hundred  years.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  I know  it.  But,  Pip — my  Dear  !”  There  was  an  earnest  womanly 
compassion  for  me  in  her  new  affection.  “ My  dear  ! Believe  this  : when  she  first 
came  to  me,  I meant  to  save  her  from  misery  like  my  own.  At  first  I meant  no  more.” 

“ Well,  well !”  said  I.  “ I hope  so.” 

“ But  as  she  grew,  and  promised  to  be  very  beautiful,  I gradually  did  worse,  and 
with  my  praises,  and  with  my  jewels,  and  with  my  teachings,  and  with  this  figure 
of  myself  always  before  her,  a warning  to  back  and  point  my  lessons,  I stole  hei 
heart  away  and  put  ice  in  its  place.” 


Miss  Havisham  tells  me  all  j be  knows . 


455 


s*  Better,”  I could  not  help  saying,  “ to  have  left  her  a natural  heart,  even  to  be 
bruised  or  broken.” 

With  that,  Miss  Havisham  looked  distractedly  at  me  for  a while,  and  then  burst 
out  again,  What  had  she  done  ! 

“If  you  knew  all  my  story,”  she  pleaded,  “ you  would  have  some  compassion 
for  me  and  a better  understanding  of  me.” 

“Miss  Havisham,”  I answered,  as  delicately  as  I could,  “ I believe  I may  say 
that  I do  know  your  story,  and  have  known  it  ever  since  I first  left  this  neigh- 
bourhood. It  has  inspired  me  with  great  commiseration,  and  I hope  I understand 
it  and  its  influences.  Does  what  has  passed  between  us  give  me  any  excuse  for 
asking  you  a question  relative  to  Estella  ? Not  as  she  is,  but  as  she  was  when  she 
first  came  here  ?” 

She  was  seated  on  the  ground,  with  her  arms  on  the  ragged  chair,  and  her 
head  leaning  on  them.  She  looked  full  at  me  when  I said  this,  and  replied. 
“ Go  on.” 

“ Whose  child  was  Estella  ? 99 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ You  don’t  know  ?” 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

“ But  Mr.  Jaggers  brought  her  here,  or  sent  her  here  ?" 

“ Brought  her  here.” 

“ Will  you  tell  me  how  that  came  about  ?” 

She  answered  in  a low  whisper  and  with  caution  : “ I had  been  shut  up  in  these 
rooms  a long  time  (I  don’t  know  how  long ; you  know  what  time  the  clocks  keep 
here),  when  I told  him  that  I wanted  a little  girl  to  rear  and  love,  and  save  from 
my  fate.  I had  first  seen  him  when  I sent  for  him  to  lay  this  place  waste  for  me ; 
having  read  of  him  in  the  newspapers  before  I and  the  world  parted.  He  told 
me  that  he  would  look  about  him  for  such  an  orphan  child.  One  night  he  brought 
her  here  asleep,  and  I called  her  Estella.” 

“ Might  I ask  her  age  then  ? ” 

“ Two  or  three.  She  herself  knows  nothing,  but  that  she  was  left  an  orphan 
and  I adopted  her.” 

So  convinced  I was  of  that  woman’s  being  her  mother,  that  I wanted  no 
evidence  to  establish  the  fact  in  my  mind.  But,  to  any  mind,  I thought,  the 
connection  here  was  clear  and  straight. 

What  more  could  I hope  to  do  by  prolonging  the  interview  ? I had  succeeded 
on  behalf  of  Herbert,  Miss  Havisham  had  told  me  all  she  knew  of  Estella,  I had 
said  and  done  what  I could  to  ease  her  mind.  No  matter  with  what  other  words 
*re  parted ; we  parted. 

Twilight  was  closing  in  when  I went  down  stairs  into  the  natural  air.  I called 
to  the  woman  who  had  opened  the  gate  when  I entered,  that  I would  not  trouble 
ner  just  yet,  but  would  walk  round  the  place  before  leaving.  For,  I had  a pre- 
•entiment  that  I should  never  be  there  again,  and  I felt  that  the  dying  light  was 
suited  to  my  last  view  of  it. 

By  the  wilderness  of  casks  that  I had  walked  on  long  ago,  and  on  which  the 
.ain  of  years  had  fallen  since,  rotting  them  in  many  places,  and  leaving  miniature 
iwamps  and  pools  of  water  upon  those  that  stood  on  end,  I made  my  way  to  the 
mined  garden.  I went  all  round  it ; round  by  the  corner  where  Herbert  and  I 
Aad  fought  our  battle  ; round  by  the  paths  where  Estella  and  I had  walked.  So 
cold,  so  lonely,  so  dreary  all ! 

Taking  the  brewery  on  my  way  back,  I raised  the  rusty  latch  of  a little  door  at 
the  garden  end  of  it,  and  walked  through.  J vvas  going  out  at  the  opposite  dooi 
—not  easy  to  open  now,  for  the  damp  wood  had  started  and  swelled,  and  the 


Great  Expectations . 


456 

hinges  were  yielding,  and  the  threshold  was  encumbered  with  a growth  of  fungus 
— when  I turned  my  head  to  look  back.  A childish  association  revived  with 
wonderful  force  in  the  moment  of  the  slight  action,  and  I fancied  that  I saw  Miss 
Havisham  hanging  to  the  beam.  So  strong  was  the  impression,  that  I stood 
under  the  beam  shuddering  from  head  t o foot  before  I knew  it  was  a fancy — 
though  to  be  sure  I was  there  in  an  instant. 

The  mournfulness  of  the  place  and  time,  and  the  great  terror  of  this  illusion, 
though  it  was  but  momentary,  caused  me  to  feel  an  indescribable  awe  as  I came 
out  between  the  open  wooden  gates  where  I had  once  wrung  my  hair  after 
Estella  had  wrung  my  heart.  Passing  on  into  the  front  court-yard,  I hesitated 
whether  to  call  the  woman  to  let  me  out  at  the  locked  gate,  of  which  she  had  the 
key,  or  first  to  go  up-stairs  and  assure  myself  that  Miss  Havisham  was  as  safe  and 
well  as  I had  left  her.  I took  the  latter  course  and  went  up. 

I looked  into  the  room  where  I had  left  her,  and  I saw  her  seated  in  the  ragged 
chair  upon  the  hearth  close  to  the  fire,  with  her  back  towards  me.  In  the  moment 
when  I was  withdrawing  my  head  to  go  quietly  awray,  I saw  a great  flaming  light 
spring  up.  In  the  same  moment  I saw  her  running  at  me,  shrieking,  with  a whirl 
of  fire  blazing  all  about  her,  and  soaring  at  least  as  many  feet  above  her  head  as 
she  was  high. 

I had  a double-caped  great-coat  on,  and  over  my  arm  another  thick  coat.  That 
I got  them  off,  closed  with  her,  threw  her  down,  and  got  them  over  her ; that  I 
dragged  the  great  cloth  from  the  table  for  the  same  purpose,  and  with  it  dragged 
down  the  heap  of  rottenness  in  the  midst,  and  all  the  ugly  things  that  sheltered 
there ; that  we  were  on  the  ground  struggling  like  desperate  enemies,  and  that 
the  closer  I covered  her,  the  more  wildly  she  shrieked  and  tried  to  free  herself ; 
that  this  occurred  I knew  through  the  result,  but  not  through  anything  I felt,  or 
thought,  or  knew  I did.  I knew  nothing  until  I knew  that  we  were  on  the  floor 
by  the  great  table,  and  that  patches  of  tinder  yet  alight  were  floating  in  the  smoky 
air,  which  a moment  ago  had  been  her  faded  bridal  dress. 

Then,  I looked  round  and  saw  the  disturbed  beetles  and  spiders  running  away 
over  the  floor,  and  the  servants  coming  in  with  breathless  cries  at  the  door.  I 
still  held  her  forcibly  down  with  all  my  strength,  like  a prisoner  who  might 
escape  ; and  I doubt  if  I even  knew  who  she  was,  or  why  we  had  struggled,  or 
that  she  had  been  in  flames,  or  that  the  flames  were  out,  until  I saw  the  patches 
of  tinder  that  had  been  her  garments,  no  longer  alight,  but  falling  in  a black 
shower  around  us. 

She  was  insensible,  and  I was  afraid  to  have  her  moved,  or  even  touched. 
Assistance  was  sent  for,  and  I held  her  until  it  came,  as  if  I unreasonably  fancied 
(I  think  I did)  that  if  I let  her  go,  the  fire  would  break  out  again  and  consume 
her.  When  I got  up,  on  the  surgeon’s  coming  to  her  with  other  aid,  I was 
astonished  to  see  that  both  my  hands  were  burnt ; for,  I had  no  knowledge  of  it 
through  the  sense  of  feeling. 

On  examination  it  was  pronounced  that  she  had  received  serious  hurts,  but  that 
they  of  themselves  were  far  from  hopeless  ; the  danger  lay  mainly  in  the  nervous 
shock.  By  the  surgeon’s  directions,  her  bed  was  carried  into  that  room  and  laid 
upon  the  great  table : which  happened  to  be  well  suited  to  the  dressing  of  her 
injuries.  When  I saw  her  again,  an  hour  afterwards,  she  lay  indeed  where  I had 
seen  her  strike  her  stick,  and  had  heard  her  say  she  would  lie  one  day. 

Though  every  vestige  of  her  dress  was  burnt,  as  they  told  me,  she  still  had 
something  of  her  old  ghastly  bridal  appearance  ; for,  they  had  covered  her  to  the 
throat  with  white-cotton  wool,  and  as  she  lay  with  a white  sheet  loosely  overlying 
that,  the  phantom  air  of  something  that  had  been  and  was  changed  was  still  upon 
her. 


Herbert  becomes  my  Nurse . 


457 


I found,  on  questioning  the  servants,  that  Estella  was  in  Paris,  and  I got  a 
promise  from  the  surgeon  that  he  would  write  by  the  next  post.  Miss  Ha  dsham’s 
family  I took  upon  myself;  intending  to  communicate  with  Matthew  PocKet  only, 
and  leave  him  to  do  as  he  liked  about  informing  the  rest.  This  I did  next  day, 
through  Herbert,  as  soon  as  I returned  to  town. 

There  was  a stage,  that  evening,  when  she  spoke  collectedly  of  what  had 
happened,  though  with  a certain  terrible  vivacity.  Towards  midnight  she  began 
to  wander  in  her  speech,  and  after  that  it  gradually  set  in  that  she  said  innume- 
rable times  in  a low  solemn  voice,  “What  have  I done  ! ” And  then,  “When 
she  first  came,  I meant  to  save  her  from  misery  like  mine.”  And  then,  “Take 
the  pencil  and  write  under  my  name,  ‘ I forgive  her !’  ” She  never  changed  the 
order  of  these  three  sentences,  but  she  sometimes  left  out  a word  in  one  or  other 
of  them  ; never  putting  in  another  word,  but  always  leaving  a blank  and  going  on 
to  the  next  word. 

As  I could  do  no  service  there,  and  as  I had,  nearer  home,  that  pressing  reason 
for  anxiety  and  fear  which  even  her  wanderings  could  not  drive  out  of  my  mind,  I 
decided  in  the  course  of  the  night  that  I would  return  by  the  early  morning 
coach  : walking  on  a mile  or  .so,  and  being  taken  up  clear  of  the  town.  At  about 
six  o’clock  of  the  morning,  therefore,  I .leaned  over  her  and  touched  her  lips  with 
mine,  just  as  they  said,  not  stopping  for  being  touched,  “ Take  the  pencil  and 
write  under  my  name,  ‘ I forgive  her.’  ” 


CHAPTER  L. 

My  hands  had  been  dressed  twice  or  thrice  in  the  night,  and  again  in  the  morning. 
My  left  arm  was  a good  deal  burned  to  the  elbow,  and,  less  severely,  as  high  as 
the  shoulder ; it  was  very  painful,  but  the  flames  had  set  in  that  direction,  and  I 
felt  thankful  it  was  no  worse.  My  right  hand  was  not  so  badly  burnt  but  that  I 
could  move  the  fingers.  It  was  bandaged,  of  course,  but  much  less  inconveniently 
than  my  left  hand  and  arm  ; those  I carried  in  a sling  ; and  I could  only  wear  my 
coat  like  a cloak,  loose  over  my  shoulders  and  fastened  at  the  neck.  My  hair  had 
been  caught  by  the  fire,  but  not  my  head  or  face. 

When  Herbert  had  been  down  to  Hammersmith  and  had  seen  his  father,  he 
came  back  to  me  at  our  chambers,  and  devoted  the  day  to  attending  on  me.  He 
was  the  kindest  of  nurses,  and  at  stated  times  took  off  the  bandages,  and  steeped 
them  in  the  cooling  liquid  that  was  kept  ready,  and  put  them  on  again,  with  a 
patient  tenderness  that  I was  deeply  grateful  for. 

At  first,  as  I lay  quiet  on  the  sofa,  I found  it  painfully  difficult,  I might  say  im- 
possible, to  get  rid  of  the  impression  of  the  glare  of  the  flames,  their  hurry  and  noise, 
and  the  fierce  burning  smell.  If  I dozed  for  a minute,  I was  awakened  by  Miss 
Havisham’s  cries,  and  by  her  running  at  me  with  all  that  height  of  fire  above  her 
head.  This  pain  of  the  mind  was  much  harder  to  strive  against  than  any  bodily 
pain  I suffered ; and  Herbert,  seeing  that,  did  his  utmost  to  hold  my  attention 
engaged. 

Neither  of  us  spoke  of  the  boat,  but  we  both  thought  of  it.  That  was  made 
apparent  by  our  avoidance  of  the  subject,  and  by  our  agreeing — without  agree- 
ment— to  make  my  recovery  of  the  use  of  my  hands,  a question  of  so  many  hours, 
not  of  so  many  weeks. 

My  first  question  when  I saw  Herbert  had  been,  of  com  se,  whether  all  was  well 
down  the  river  ? As  he  replied  in  the  affirmative,  with  perfect  confidence  and 


453 


Great  Expectations . 


cheerfulness,  we  did  not  resume  the  subject  until  the  day  was  wearing  away.  But 
then,  as  Herbert  changed  the  bandages,  more  by  the  light  of  the  fire  than  by  the 
outer  light,  he  went  back  to  it  spontaneously. 

“ I sat  with  Provis  last  night,  Handel,  two  good  hours.” 

“ Where  was  Clara  ? ” 

“Dear  little  thing!’'  said  Herbert.  “ Sh£  was  up  and  down  with  Gruffand- 
giim  all  the  evening.  He  was  perpetually  pegging  at  the  floor,  the  moment  she 
left  his  sight.  I doubt  if  he  can  hold  out  long  though.  What  with  rum  and 
pepper — and  pepper  and  rum — I should  think  his  pegging  must  be  nearly  over.” 
“ And  then  you  will  be  married,  Herbert  ? ” 

“ How  can  I take  care  of  the  dear  child  otherwise  ? — Lay  your  arm  out  upon 
the  back  of  the  sofa,  my  dear  boy,  and  I’ll  sit  down  here,  and  get  the  bandage 
off  so  gradually  that  you  shall  not  know  when  it  comes.  I was  speaking  of 
Provis.  Do  you  know,  Handel,  he  improves  ? ” 

“ I said  to  you  I thought  he  was  softened  when  I last  saw  him.” 

“ So  you  did.  And  so  he  is.  He  was  very  communicative  last  night,  and  told 
me  more  of  his  life.  You  remember  his  breaking  off  here  about  some  woman 
that  he  had  had  great  trouble  with. — Did  1 hurt  you  ? ” 

I had  started,  but  not  under  his  touch.  His  words  had  given  me  a start. 

“ I had  forgotten  that,  Herbert,  but  I remember  it  now  you  speak  of  it.” 

“ Well  ! He  went  into  that  part  of  his  life,  and  a dark  wild  part  it  is.  Shall 
I tell  you  ? Or  would  it  worry  you  just  now  ? ” 

“ Tell  me  by  all  means.  Every  word.” 

Herbert  bent  forward  to  look  at  me  more  nearly,  as  if  my  reply  had  been  rather 
more  hurried  or  more  eager  than  he  could  quite  account  for.  “ Your  head  is 
cool  ? ” he  said,  touching  it. 

“ Quite,”  said  I.  “ Tell  me  what  Provis  said,  my  dear  Herbert.” 

“It  seems,”  said  Herbert,  “ — there’s  a bandage  off  most  charmingly,  and  now 
comes  the  cool  one — makes  you  shrink  at  first,  my  poor  dear  fellow,  don’t  it  ? but  it 
will  be  comfortable  presently — it  seems  that  the  woman  was  a young  woman,  and  a 
jealous  woman,  and  a revengeful  woman  ; revengeful,  Handel,  to  the  last  degree.” 
“To  what  last  degree  ? ” 

“ Murder. — Does  it  strike  too  cold  on  that  sensitive  place  ? ” 

“ I don’t  feel  it.  How  did  she  murder  ? Whom  did  she  murder  ? ” 

“ Why,  the  deed  may  not  have  merited  quite  so  terrible  a name,”  said  Herbert, 
“but  she  was  tried  for  it,  and  Mr.  Jaggers  defended  her,  and  the  reputation  of 
that  defence  first  made  his  name  known  to  Provis.  It  was  another  and  a stronger 
woman  who  was  the  victim,  and  there  had  been  a struggle — in  a barn.  Who 
began  it,  or  how  fair  it  was,  or  how  unfair,  may  be  doubtful ; but  how  it  ended 
certainly  not  doubtful,  for  the  victim  was  found  throttled.” 

“ Was  the  woman  brought  in  guilty  ? ” 

“ No  ; she  was  acquitted. — My  poor  Handel,  I hurt  you  ! ” 

“ It  is  impossible  to  be  gentler,  Herbert.  Yes  ? What  else  ? ” 

“ This  acquitted  young  woman  and  Provis  had  a little  child  : a little  child  of 
whom  Provis  was  exceedingly  fond.  On  the  evening  of  the  very  night  when  the 
object  of  her  jealousy  was  strangled  as  I tell  you,  the  young  woman  presented 
herself  before  Provis  for  one  moment,  and  swore  that  she  would  destroy  the  child 
(which  was  in  her  possession),  and  he  should  never  see  it  again  ; then,  she  vanished. 
—There’s  the  worst  arm  comfortably  in  the  sling  once  more,  and  now  there  re- 
mains but  the  right  hand,  which  is  a far  easier  job.  I can  do  it  better  by  this 
light  than  by  a stronger,  for  my  hand  is  steadiest  when  I don’t  see  the  poor  blistered 
patches  too  distinctly. — You  don’t  think  your  breathing  is  affected,  my  dear  boy  ? 
x du  seem  to  bieathe  quickly.” 


A conversation  with  my  Nurse . 


4>9 


“ Perhaps  I do,  Herbert.  Did  the  woman  keep  her  oath  ? ” 

“ There  comes  the  darkest  part  of  Provis’s  life.  She  did.” 

“ That  is,  he  says  she  did.” 

“ Why,  of  course,  my  dear  boy,”  returned  Herbert,  in  a tone  of  surprise,  and 
again  bending  forward  to  get  a nearer  look  at  me.  “ He  says  it  all.  I have  no 
other  information.” 

“ No,  to  be  sure.” 

“Now,  whether,”  pursued  Herbert,  “he  had  used  the  child’s  mother  ill,  or 
whether  he  had  used  the  child’s  mother  well,  Provis  doesn’t  say;  but,  she  had 
shared  some  four  or  five  years  of  the  wretched  life  he  described  to  us  at  this 
fireside,  and  he  seems  to  have  felt  pity  for  her,  and  brbearance  towards  her. 
Therefore,  fearing  he  should  be  called  upon  to  depose  a "’U  this  destroyed  child, 
and  so  be  the  cause  of  her  death,  he  hid  himself  (muev.  ' he  grieved  for  the 
child),  kept  himself  dark,  as  he  says,  out  of  the  way  and  out  of  the  trial,  and  was 
only  vaguely  talked  of  as  a certain  man  called  Abel,  out  of  whom  the  jealousy 
arose.  After  the  acquittal  she  disappeared,  and  thus  he  lost  the  child  and  the 
child’s  mother.” 

“ I want  to  ask ” 

“A  moment,  my  dear  boy,  and  I have  done.  That  evil  genius,  Compeyson, 
the  worst  of  scoundrels  among  many  scoundrels,  knowing  of  his  keeping  out  of 
the  way  at  that  time,  and  of  his  reasons  for  doing  so,  of  course  afterwards  held 
the  knowledge  over  his  head  as  a means  of  keeping  him  poorer,  and  working  him 
harder.  It  was  clear  last  night  that  this  barbed  the  point  of  Provis’s  animosity.” 
“I  want  to  know,”  said  I,  “and  particularly,  Herbert,  whether  he  told  you 
when  this  happened  ?” 

“ Particularly  ? Let  me  remember,  then,  what  he  said  as  to  that.  His  expres- 
sion was,  * a round  score  o’  year  ago,  and  a’most  directly  after  I took  up  wi’  Com- 
peyson.’ How  old  were  you  when  you  came  upon  him  in  the  little  churchyard  ?w 
“ I think  in  my  seventh  year.” 

“ Ay.  It  had  happened  some  three  or  four  years  then,  he  said,  and  you  brought 
into  his  mind  the  little  girl  so  tragically  lost,  who  would  have  been  about  your  age.” 
“ Herbert,”  said  I,  after  a short  silence,  in  a hurried  way,  “ can  you  see  me  best 
by  the  light  of  the  window,  or  the  light  of  the  fire  ?” 

“By  the  firelight,”  answered  Herbert,  coming  close  again# 

“ Look  at  me.” 

“ I do  look  at  you,  my  dear  boy.** 

“ Touch  me.” 

“ I do  touch  you,  my  dear  boy.” 

“You  are  not  afraid  that  I am  in  any  fever,  or  that  my  head  is  much  disordered 
by  the  accident  of  last  night  ?” 

“N-no.  my  dear  boy,”  said  Herbert,  after  taking  time  to  examine  me.  “ You 
are  rather  excited,  but  you  are  quite  yourself.” 

“ I know  I am  quite  myself.  And  the  man  we  have  in  hiding  down  the  river,  i» 
Estella’s  Father.” 


460 


Great  Expectations. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

What  purpose  I had  in  view  when  I was  hot  on  tracing  out  and  proving  Estella’g 
parentage,  I cannot  say.  It  will  presently  be  seen  that  the  question  was  not  before 
me  in  a distinct  shape,  until  it  was  put  before  me  by  a wiser  head  than  my  own. 

But,  when  Herbert  and  I had  held  our  momentous  conversation,  I was  seized 
with  a feverish  conviction  that  I ought  to  hunt  the  matter  down — that  I ought  not 
to  let  it  rest,  but  that  I ought  to  see  Mr.  Jaggers,  and  come  at  the  bare  truth.  I 
really  do  not  know  whether  I felt  that  I did  this  for  Estella’s  sake,  or  whether  I 
was  glad  to  transfer  to  the  man  in  whose  preservation  I was  so  much  concerned, 
some  rays  of  the  romantic  interest  that  had  so  long  surrounded  me.  Perhaps  the 
latter  possibility  may  be  the  nearer  to  the  truth. 

Any  way,  I could  scarcely  be  withheld  from  going  out  to  Gerrard-street  that 
night.  Herbeit’s  representations  that  if  I did,  I should  probably  be  laid  up  and 
stricken  useless,  when  our  fugitive’s  safety  would  depend  upon  me,  alone  restrained 
my  impatience.  On  the  understanding,  again  and  again  reiterated,  that  come  what 
would,  I was  to  go  to  Mr.  Jaggers  to-morrow,  I at  length  submitted  to  keep  quiet, 
and  to  have  my  hurts  looked  after,  and  to  stay  at  home.  Early  next  morning  we 
went  out  together,  and  at  the  corner  of  Giltspur-street  by  Smithfield,  I left  Herbert 
to  go  his  way  into  the  City,  and  took  my  way  to  Little  Britain. 

There  were  periodical  occasions  when  Mr.  Jaggers  and  Mr.  Wemmick  went  over 
the  office  accounts,  and  checked  off  the  vouchers,  and  put  all  things  straight.  On 
these  occasions  Wemmick  took  his  books  and  papers  into  Mr.  Jaggers’s  room,  and 
one  of  the  up-stairs  clerks  came  down  into  the  outer  office.  Finding  such  clerk  on 
Wemmick’s  post  that  morning,  I knew  what  was  going  on  ; but  I was  not  sorry  to 
have  Mr.  Jaggers  and  Wemmick  together,  as  Wemmick  would  then  hear  for  him- 
self that  I said  nothing  to  compromise  him. 

My  appearance  with  my  arm  bandaged  and  my  coat  loose  over  my  shoulders, 
favoured  my  object.  Although  I had  sent  Mr.  Jaggers  a brief  account  of  the 
accident  as  soon  as  I had  arrived  in  town,  yet  I had  to  give  him  all  the  details 
now  ; and  the  specialty  of  the  occasion  caused  our  talk  to  be  less  dry  and  hard, 
and  less  strictly  regulated  by  the  rules  of  evidence,  than  it  had  been  before.  While 
I described  the  disaster,  Mr.  Jaggers  stood,  according  to  his  wont,  before  the  fire. 
Wemmick  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  staring  at  me,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  trousers,  and  his  pen  put  horizontally  into  the  post.  The  two  brutal  casts, 
always  inseparable  in  my  mind  from  the  official  proceedings,  seemed  to  be  con- 
gestively  considering  whether  they  didn’t  smell  fire  at  the  present  moment. 

My  narrative  finished,  and  their  questions  exhausted,  I then  produced  Miss 
Havisham’s  authority  to  receive  the  nine  hundred  pounds  for  Herbert.  Mr. 
Jaggers’s  eyes  retired  a little  deeper  into  his  head  when  I handed  him  the  tablets, 
Dut  he  presently  handed  them  over  to  Wemmick,  with  instructions  to  draw  the 
cheque  for  his  signature.  While  that  was  in  course  of  being  done,  I looked  on  at 
Wemmick  as  he  wrote,  and  Mr.  Jaggers,  poising  and  swaying  himself  on  his 
well-polished  boots,  looked  on  at  me.  “ I am  sorry,  Pip,”  said  he,  as  I put  the 
cheque  in  my  pocket,  when  he  had  signed  it,  “ that  we  do  nothing  for  you” 

“Miss  Havisham  was  good  enough  to  ask  me,”  I returned,  “whether  she  could 
do  nothing  forme,  and  I told  her  No.” 

“ Everybody  should  know  his  own  business,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  And  I saw 
Wemmick’s  lips  form  the  words  “ portable  property.” 

“I  should  not  have  told  her  No,  if  I had  been  you,”  said  Mr.  Jiggers  ; “but 
*very  man  ought  to  know  his  own  business  best.” 


I appeal  to  Mr . Jiggers.  * T 

“Every  man’s  business,”  said  Wemmick,  rather  reproachfully  towards  me,  “is 
* portable  property.’  ” 

As  I thought  the  time  was  now  come  for  pursuing  the  theme  I had  at  heart,  I 
said,  turning  on  Mr.'  Jaggers  : 

“I  did  ask  something  of  Miss  Havisham,  however,  sir.  I asked  her  to  give  me 
seme  information  relative  to  her  adopted  daughter,  and  she  gave  me  all  she 
possessed.” 

“ Did  she  ? ” said  Mr.  Jaggers,  bending  forward  to  look  at  his  boots  and  then 
straightening  himself.  “ Hah  ! I don’t  think  I should  have  done  so,  if  I had  been 
Miss  Havisham.  But  she  ought  to  know  her  own  business  best.” 

“ I know  more  of  the  history  of  Miss  Havisham’s  adopted  child,  than  Miss 
Havisham  herself  does,  sir.  I know  her  mother.” 

Mr.  Jaggers  looked  at  me  inquiringly,  and  repeated  “ Mother  ? ” 

“ I have  seen  her  mother  within  these  three  days.” 

“Yes  ? ” said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ And  so  have  you,  sir.  And  you  have  seen  her  still  more  recently.” 

“ Yes  ? ” said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“Perhaps  I know  more  of  Estella’s  history,  than  even  you  do,”  said  I.  “I 
know  her  father,  too.” 

A certain  stop  that  Mr.  Jaggers  came  to  in  his  manner — he  was  too  self- 
possessed  to  change  his  manner,  but  he  could  not  help  its  being  brought  to  an 
indefinably  attentive  stop — assured  me  that  he  did  not  know  who  her  father  was. 
This  I had  strongly  suspected  from  Provis’s  account  (as  Herbert  had  repeated  it) 
of  his  having  kept  himself  dark  ; which  I pieced  on  to  the  fact  that  he  himself  was 
not  Mr.  Jaggers’s  client  until  some  four  years  later,  and  when  he  could  have  no. 
reason  for  claiming  his  identity.  But,  I could  not  be  sure  of  this  unconsciousness 
on  Mr.  Jaggers’s  part  before,  though  I was  quite  sure  of  it  now. 

“ So  ! You  know  the  young  lady’s  father,  Pip  ? ” said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“ Yes,”  I replied,  “ and  his  name  is  Provis — from  New  South  Wales.” 

Even  Mr.  Jaggers  started  when  I said  those  words.  It  was  the  slightest  start 
that  could  escape  a man,  the  most  carefully  repressed  and  the  sooner  checked,  but 
he  did  start,  though  he  made  it  a part  of  the  action  of  taking  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief.  How  Wemmick  received  the  announcement  I am  unable  to  say, 
for  I was  afraid  to  look  at  him  just  then,  lest  Mr.  Jaggers’s  sharpness  should 
detect  that  there  had  been  some  communication  unknown  to  him  between  us. 

“And  on  what  evidence,  Pip,”  asked  Mr.  Jaggers,  very  coolly,  as  he  paused 
with  his  handkerchief  half  way  to  his  nose,  “ does  Provis  make  this  claim  ?” 

“ He  does  not  make  it,”  said  I,  “ and  has  never  made  it,  and  has  no  knowledge 
or  belief  that  his  daughter  is  in  existence.” 

For  once,  the  powerful  pocket-handkerchief  failed.  My  reply  was  so  unexpected 
that  Mr.  Jaggers  put  the  handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket  without  completing  the 
usual  performance,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  with  stern  attention  at  me,  though 
with  an  immovable  face. 

Then  I told  him  all  I knew,  and  how  I knew  it ; with  the  one  reservation  that  I 
left  him  to  infer  that  I knew  from  Miss  Havisham  what  I in  fact  knew  from  Wem- 
mick. I was  very  careful  indeed  as  to  that.  Nor,  did  I look  towards  Wemmick 
until  I had  finished  all  I had  to  tell,  and  had  been  for  some  time  silently  meeting 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  look.  When  I did  at  last  turn  my  eyes  in  Wemmick’s  direction, 
I found  that  he  had  unposted  his  pen,  and  was  intent  upon  the  table  before  him. 

“ Hah  !’  said  Mr.  Jaggers  at  last,  as  he  moved  towards  the  papers  on  the  table. 
u — What  item  was  it  you  were  at,  Wemmick,  when  Mr.  Pip  came  in  ?” 

But  I could  not  submit  to  be  thrown  off  in  that  way,  and  I made  a passionate, 
almost  an  indignant  appeal  10  him  to  be  more  frank  and  manly  with  mr . I re* 


Great  Expectations. 


462 


minded  him  of  the  false  hopes  into  which  I had  lapsed,  the  length  of  time  they  had 
lasted,  and  the  discoveiy  I had  made  : and  I hinted  at  the  danger  that  weighed 
upon  my  spirits.  I represented  myself  as  being  surely  worthy  of  some  little  confi- 
dence from  mm,  in  return  for  the  confidence  I had  just  now  imparted.  I said  that 
I did  not  blame  him,  or  suspect  him,  or  mistrust  him,  but  I wanted  assurance  of  the 
truth  from  him.  And  if  he  asked  me  why  I wanted  it  and  why  I thought  I had  any 
right  to  it,  I would  tell  him,  little  as  he  cared  for  such  poor  dreams,  that  I had  loved 
Estella  dearly  and  long,  and  that,  although  I had  lost  her  and  must  live  a bereaved 
life,  whatever  concerned  her  was  still  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  And  seeing  that  Mr.  Jaggers  stood  quite  still  and  silent,  and  appa- 
rently quite  obdurate,  under  this  appeal,  I turned  to  Wemmick,  and  said,  “ Wen- 
mick,  I know  you  to  be  a man  with  a gentle  heart.  I have  seen  your  pleasant 
home,  and  your  old  father,  and  all  the  innocent  cheerful  playful  ways  with  which 
you  refresh  your  business  life.  And  I entreat  you  to  say  a word  for  me  to  Mr. 
Jaggers,  an  l to  represent  to  him  that,  all  circumstances  considered,  he  ought  to  be 
more  open  with  me  !” 

I have  never  seen  two  men  look  more  oddly  at  one  another  than  Mr.  Jaggers 
and  Wemmick  did  after  this  apostrophe.  At  first,  a misgiving  crossed  me  thit 
Wemmick  would  be  instantly  dismissed  from  his  employment  ; but,  it  melted  as  I 
saw  Mr.  Jaggers  relax  into  something  like  a smile,  and  Wemmick  become  bolder. 

“ What’s  all  this  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers.  “You  with  an  old  father,  and  you  with 
pleasant  and  playful  ways?” 

“Well!”  returned  Wemmick.  “If  I don’t  bring  ’em  here,  what  does  it 
matter  ?” 

“ Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  smiling  openly, 
“ this  man  must  be  the  most  cunning  impostor  in  all  London.’’ 

“ Not  a bit  of  it,”  returned  Wemmick,  growing  bolder  and  bolder.  “I  think 
you’re  another.” 

Again  they  exchanged  their  former  odd  looks,  each  apparently  still  distrustful 
that  the  other  was  taking  him  in. 

*.*  You  with  a pleasant  home  ?”  said  Mr.  Jaggers. 

“Since  it  don’t  interfere  with  business,”  returned  Wemmick,  “let  it  be  so. 
Now,  I look  at  you,  sir,  I shouldn’t  wonder  \i you  might  be  planning  and  contriv- 
ing to  l ave  a pleasant  home  of  your  own,  one  of  these  days,  when  you’re  tired  of 
•11  this  work.” 

Mr.  Jaggers  nodded  his  head  retrospectively  two  or  three  times,  and  actually 
drew  s?  sigh.  “ Pip,”  said  he,  “ we  won’t  talk  about  4 poor  dreams  ; ’ you  know 
more  about  such  things  than  I,  having  much  fresher  experience  of  that  kind. 
But  row,  about  this  other  matter.  I’ll  put  a case  to  you.  Mind!  I admit 
nothing.” 

He  waited  for  me  to  declare  that  I quite  understood  that  he  expressly  said  that 
he  admitted  nothing. 

“Now,  Pip,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  “put  this  case.  Put  the  case  that  a woman, 
under  such  circumstances  as  you  have  mentioned,  held  her  child  concealed,  and 
was  obliged  to  communicate  the  fact  to  her  legal  adviser,  on  his  representing  to 
her  that  he  must  know,  with  an  eye  to  the  latitude  of  his  defence,  how  the  fact 
stood  about  that  child.  Put  the  case  that  at  the  same  time  he  held  a trust  to  hnd 
a child  for  an  eccentric  rich  lady  to  adopt  and  bring  up,” 

“I  follow  you,  sir.” 

“ Put  the  case  that  he  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  evil,  and  that  all  he  saw  of 
children  was,  their  being  generated  in  great  numbers  for  certain  destruction.  Put 
*-*ie  case  that  he  often  saw  children  solemnly  tried  at  a criminal  bar,  where  they 
were  held  uj  *0  be  seen ; put  the  case  that  he  habitually  knew  of  their  being  im- 


A fair  of  Impostors . 


463 


prisoned,  whipped,  transported,  neglected,  cast  out,  qualified  in  all  ways  for  the 
hangman,  and  growing  up  to  be  hanged.  Put  the  case  that  pretty  nigh  all  the 
children  he  saw  in  his  daily  business  life,  he  had  reason  to  look  upon  as  so  much 
spawn,  to  develop  into  the  fish  that  were  to  come  to  his  net — to  be  prosecuted, 
defended,  forsworn,  made  orphans,  bedevilled  somehow.” 

“ I follow  you,  sir.” 

“ Put  the  case,  Pip,  that  here  was  one  pretty  little  child  out  of  the  heap  win 
could  be  saved ; whom  the  father  believed  dead,  and  dared  make  no  stir  about 
as  to  whom,  over  the  mother,  the  legal  adviser  had  this  power  : ‘ I know  whs 
you  did,  and  how  you  did  it.  You  came  so  and  so,  you  did  such  and  such  thing! 
to  divert  suspicion.  I have  tracked  you  through  it  all,  and  I tell  it  you  all.  Part 
with  the  child,  unless  it  should  be  necessary  to  produce  it  to  clear  you,  and  then 
it  shall  be  produced.  Give  the  child  into  my  hands,  and  I will  do  my  best  to 
bring  you  off.  If  you  are  saved,  your  child  will  be  saved  too ; if  you  are  lost, 
your  child  is  still  saved.’  Put  the  case  that  this  was  done,  and  that  the  woman 
was  cleared.” 

“ I understand  you  perfectly.” 

“But  that  I make  no  admissions  ? ” 

“ That  you  make  no  admissions.”  And  Wemmick  repeated,  “No  admissions.” 
“ Put  the  case,  Pip,  that  passion  and  the  terror  of  death  had  a little  shaken  the 
woman’s  intellects,  and  that  when  she  was  set  at  liberty,  she  was  scared  out  of  the 
ways  of  the  world  and  went  to  him  to  be  sheltered.  Put  the  case  that  he  took  her 
in,  and  that  he  kept  down  the  old  wild  violent  nature,  whenever  he  saw  an  inkling 
of  its  breaking  out,  by  asserting  his  power  over  her  in  the  old  way.  Do  you 
comprehend  the  imaginary  case  ? ” 

“ Quite.” 

“ Put  the  case  that  the  child  grew  up,  and  was  married  for  money.  That  the 
mother  was  still  living.  That  the  father  was  still  living.  That  the  mother  and 
f.  ther,  unknown  to  one  another,  were  dwelling  within  so  many  miles,  furlongs, 
yards  if  you  like,  of  one  another.  That  the  secret  was  still  a secret,  except  that 
you  had  got  wind  of  it.  Put  that  last  case  to  yourself  very  carefully.” 

“I  do.” 

“I  ask  Wemmick  to  put  it  to  himself  very  carefully.” 

And  Wemmick  said,  “ I do.” 

“For  whose  sake  would  you  reveal  the  secret  ? For  the  father’s  ? I think  he 
would  not  be  much  the  better  for  the  mother.  Foi  the  mother’s  ? I think  if  she 
had  done  such  a deed  she  would  be  safer  where  she  was.  For  the  daughter’s  ? I 
think  it  would  hardly  serve  her,  to  establish  her  parentage  for  the  information  of 
her  husband,  and  to  drag  her  back  to  disgrace,  after  an  escape  of  twenty  years, 
pretty  secure  to  last  for  life.  But,  add  the  case  that  you  had  loved  her,  Pip,  and 
had  made  her  the  subject  of  those  ‘poor  dreams’  which  have,  at  one  time  or 
another,  been  in  the  heads  of  more  men  than  you  think  likely,  then  I tell  you  that 
you  had  better — and  would  much  sooner  when  you  had  thought  well  of  it — chop 
off  that  bandaged  left  hand  of  yours  with  your  bandaged  right  hand,  and  then  pass 
the  chopper  on  to  Wemmick  there,  to  cut  that  off,  too.” 

I looked  at  Wemmick,  whose  face  was  veiy  grave.  He  gravely  touched  his 
lips  with  his  forefinger.  I did  the  same.  Mr.  Jaggers  did  the  same.  “ Now, 
Wemmick,”  said  the  latter  then,  resuming  his  usual  manner,  “what  item  was  it 
you  were  at,  when  Mr.  Pip  came  in  ?” 

Standing  by  for  a little,  while  they  were  at  work,  I observed  that  the  odd  look* 
they  had  cast  atone  another  were  repeated  several  times  : with  this  difference  now, 
that  each  of  them  seemed  suspicious,  not  to  say  conscious,  of  having  shown 
himself  in  a weak  and  unprofessional  light  to  the  other.  For  this  reason.  I 


Great  Expectations. 


^4 


suppose,  they  were  now  inflexible  with  one  another ; Mr.  Jaggers  being  highly 
dictatorial,  and  Wemmick  obstinately  justifying  himself  whenever  there  was  the 
smallest  point  in  abeyance  for  a moment.  I had  never  seen  them  on  such  ill 
terms  ; for  generally  they  got  on  very  well  indeed  together. 

But,  they  were  both  happily  relieved  by  the  opportune  appearance  of  Mike,  the 
client  wTith  the  fur  cap,  and  the  habit  of  wiping  his  nose  on  his  sleeve,  whom  I 
had  seen  on  the  very  first  day  of  my  appearance  within  those  walls.  This 
individual,  who,  either  in  his  own  person  or  in  that  of  some  member  of  his 
family,  seemed  to  be  always  in  trouble  (which  in  that  place  meant  Newgate), 
called  to  announce  that  his  eldest  daughter  was  taken  up  on  suspicion  of  shop- 
lifting. As  he  imparted  this  melancholy  circumstance  to  Wemmick,  Mr.  Jaggersj 
standing  magisterially  before  the  fire  and  taking  no  share  in  the  proceedings, 
Mike’s  eye  happened  to  twinkle  with  a tear. 

“ What  are  you  about  ?”  demanded  Wemmick,  with  the  utmost  indignation. 
“ What  do  you  come  snivelling  here  for  ?” 

“ I didn’t  go  to  do  it,  Mr.  Wemmick.” 

“You  did,”  said  Wemmick.  “How  dare  you?  You’re  not  in  a fit  state  to 
come  here,  if  you  can’t  come  here  without  spluttering  like  a bad  pen.  What  do 
you  mean  by  it  ?” 

“A  man  can’t  help  his  feelings,  Mr.  Wemmick,”  pleaded  Mike. 

“His  what  ?”  demanded  Wemmick,  quite  savagely.  “ Say  that  again  ! ” 

“Now  look  here,  my  man,”  said  Mr.  Jaggers,  advancing  a step,  and  pointing 
to  the  door.  “ Get  out  of  this  office.  I’ll  have  no  feelings  here.  Get  out.” 

“ It  serves  you  right,”  said  Wemmick.  “ Get  out.” 

So  the  unfortunate  Mike  very  humbly  withdrew,  and  Mr.  Jaggers  and 
Wemmick  appeared  to  have  re-established  their  good  understanding,  and  went 
to  work  again  with  an  air  of  refreshment  upon  them  as  if  they  had  just  had  lunch. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

From  Little  Britain,  I went,  with  my  cheque  in  my  pocket,  to  Miss  Skiffins’s 
brother,  the  accountant;  and  Miss  Skiffins’s  brother,  the  accountant,  going 
straight  to  Clarriker’s  and  bringing  Clarriker  to  me,  I had  the  great  satisfaction  of 
concluding  that  arrangement.  It  was  the  only  good  thing  I had  done,  and  the 
only  completed  thing  I had  done,  since  I was  first  apprised  of  my  great  expectations. 

Clarriker  informing  me  on  that  occasion  that  the  affairs  of  the  House  were 
steadily  progressing,  that  he  would  now  be  able  to  establish  a small  branch-house 
in  the  East  which  was  much  wanted  for  the  extension  of  the  business,  and  that 
Herbert  in  his  new  partnership  capacity  would  go  out  and  take  charge  of  it,  I 
found  that  I must  have  prepared  for  a separation  from  my  friend,  even  though  my 
own  affairs  had  been  more  settled.  And  now  indeed  I felt  as  if  my  last  anchor 
were  loosening  its  hold,  and  I should  soon  be  driving  with  the  winds  and  waves. 

But,  there  was  recompense  in  the  joy  with  which  Herbert  would  come  home  oi 
a night  and  tell  me  of  these  changes,  little  imagining  that  he  told  me  no  news, 
and  would  sketch  airy  pictures  of  himself  conducting  Clara  Barley  to  the  land  of 
the  Arabian  Nights,  and  of  me  going  out  to  join  them  (with  a caravan  of  camels, 
I believe),  and  of  our  all  going  up  the  Nile  and  seeing  wonders.  Without  being 
sanguine  as  to  my  own  part  in  those  bright  plans,  I felt  that  Herbert’s  way  was 
clearing  fast,  and  that  old  Bill  Barley  had  but  to  stick  to  his  pepper  and  rum, 
and  his  daughter  wc  uld  soon  be  happily  provided  for. 


A Letter  fr  ~i  JVemmich. 


465 

We  liad  now  got  into  the  month  of  March.  My  left  arm,  though  it  presented 
no  bad  symptoms,  took  in  the  natural  course  so  long  to  heal  that  I was  still 
unable  to  get  a coat  on.  My  right  arm  was  tolerably  restored  ; — disfigured,  but 
rairlv  serviceable. 

On  a Monday  morning,  when  Herbert  and  I were  at  breakfast,  I received  the 
following  letter  from  Wemmick  by  the  post. 

‘‘Walworth.  Burn  this  as  soon  as  read.  Early  in  the  week,  or  say  Wednesday,  you  might  do 
wh  it  you  know  of,  if  you  felt  disposed  to  try  it.  Now  burn.” 

When  I had  shown  this  to  Herbert  and  had  put  it  in  the  fire — but  not  before 
we  had  both  got  it  by  heart — we  considered  what  to  do.  For,  of  course,  my 
being  disabled  could  now  be  no  longer  kept  out  of  view. 

“ I have  thought  it  over,  again  and  again,”  said  Herbert,  “and  I think  I know 
1 better  course  than  taking  a Thames  waterman.  Take  Startop.  A good  fellow, 
a skilled  hand,  fond  of  us,  and  enthusiastic  and  honourable.” 

I had  thought  of  him,  more  than  once. 

“ But  how  much  would  you  tell  him,  Herbert  ?” 

“ It  is  necessary  to  tell  him  very  little.  Let  him  suppose  it  a mere  freak,  but  a 
secret  one,  until  the  morning  comes  : then  let  him  know  that  there  is  urgent 
reason  for  your  getting  Provis  aboard  and  away.  You  go  with  him  ?” 

“ No,  doubt.” 

“Where?” 

It  had  seemed  to  me,  in  the  many  anxious  considerations  I had  given  the  point, 
almost  indifferent  what  port  we  made  for— Hamburg,  Rotterdam,  Antwerp — the 
place  signified  little,  so  that  he  was  out  of  England.  Any  foreign  steamer  that 
fell  in  our  way  and  would  take  us  up  would  do.  I had  always  proposed  to 
myself  to  get  him  well  down  the  river  in  the  boat;  certainly  well  beyond 
Gravesend,  which  was  a critical  place  for  search  or  inquiry  if  suspicion  were  afoot. 
As  foreign  steamers  would  leave  London  at  about  the  time  of  high-water,  our  plan 
would  be  to  get  down  the  river  by  a previous  ebb-tide,  and  lie  by  in  some  quiet 
spot  until  we  could  pull  off  to  one.  The  time  when  one  would  be  due  where  we 
lay,  wherever  that  might  be,  could  be  calculated  pretty  nearly,  if  we  made 
inquiries  beforehand. 

Herbert  assented  to  all  this,  and  we  went  out  immediately  after  breakfast  to 
pursue  our  investigations.  We  found  that  a steamer  for  Hamburg  was  likely  to 
suit  our  purpose  best,  and  we  directed  our  thoughts  chiefly  to  that  vessel.  But 
we  noted  down  what  other  foreign  steamers  would  leave  London  with  the  same 
tide,  and  we  satisfied  ourselves  that  we  knew  the  build  and  colour  of  each.  We 
then  separated  for  a few  hours  ; I to  get  at  once  such  passports  as  were  necessary ; 
Herbert,  to  see  Startop  at  his  lodgings.  We  both  did  what  we  had  to  do  without 
any  hindrance,  and  when  we  met  again  at  one  o’clock  reported  it  done.  I,  for  my 
part,  was  prepared  with  passports ; Herbert  had  seen  Startop,  and  he  was  more 
than  ready  to  join. 

Tho  ;e  two  would  pull  a pair  of  oars,  we  settled,  and  I would  steer  : our  charge 
would  be  sitter,  and  keep  quiet ; as  speed  was  not  our  object,  we  should  make 
way  enough.  We  arranged  that  Herbert  should  not  come  home  to  dinner  before 
going  to  Mill  Pond  Bank  that  evening ; that  he  should  not  go  there  at  all, 
to-morrow  evening,  Tuesday;  that  he  should  prepare  Provis  to  come  down  to 
some  Stairs  hard  by  the  house,  on  Wednesday,  when  he  saw  us  approach,  md 
not  sooner ; that  all  the  arrangements  with  him  should  be  concluded  that  Mon  la\ 
night ; and  that  he  should  be  communicated  with  no  more  in  any  way,  until  we 
took  him  on  board. 

These  precautions  well  understood  by  both  of  us,  I went  home. 

H H 


466 


Great  Expectations. 


On  opening  the  outer  door  of  our  chambers  with  my  key,  I found  a letter 
in  the  box,  directed  to  me  ; a very  dirty  letter,  though  not  ill-written.  It  had 
been  delivered  by  hand  (of  course  since  I left  home),  and  its  contents  were 
these : 

‘If  you  are  not  afraid  to  come  to  the  old  mars1  es  to-night  or  to-morrow  night  at  Nine,  and  to 
come  to  the  litlle  sluice-house  by  the  limekiln,  you  had  better  come.  If  you  want  information 
regarding  your  uncle  Provis , you  had  much  better  come  and  tell  no  one  and  lose  no  time.  You 
must  come  alone.  Bring  tb;<*  with  you.’’ 

I had  had  load  enough  upon  my  mind  before  the  receipt  of  this  strange  letter. 
What  to  do  now,  I could  not  tell.  And  the  worst  was,  that  I must  decide 
quickly,  or  I should  miss  the  afternoon  coach,  which  would  take  me  down  in  time 
for  to-night.  To-morrow  night  I could  not  think  of  going,  for  it  would  be  too 
close  upon  the  time  of  the  flight.  And  again,  for  anything  I knew,  the  proffered 
information  might  have  some  important  bearing  on  the  flight  itself. 

If  I had  had  ample  time  for  consideration,  1 believe  I should  still  have  gone. 
Having  hardly  any  time  for  consideration — my  watch  showing  me  that  the  coach 
started  within  half  an  hour — I resolved  to  go.  I should  certainly  not  have  gone, 
but  for  the  reference  to  my  Uncle  Provis.  That,  coming  on  Wemmick’s  letter 
and  the  morning’s  busy  preparation,  turned  the  scale. 

It  is  so  difficult  to  become  clearly  possessed  of  the  contents  of  almost  any  letter, 
in  a violent  hurry,  that  I had  to  read  this  mysterious  epistle  again,  twice,  before  its 
injunction  to  me  to  be  secret  got  mechanically  into  my  mind.  Yielding  to  it  in 
the  same  mechanical  kind  of  way,  I left  a note  in  pencil  for  Herbert,  telling  him 
that  as  I should  be  so  soon  going  away,  I knew  not  for  how  long,  I had  decided 
to  hurry  down  and  back,  to  ascertain  for  myself  how  Miss  Havisham  wras  faring. 
I had  then  barely  time  to  get  my  great-coat,  lock  up  the  chambers,  and  make  for 
the  coach-office  by  the  short  by-ways.  If  I had  taken  a hackney-chariot  and  gone 
by  the  streets,  I should  have  missed  my  aim  ; going  as  I did,  I caught  the  coach 
just  as  it  came  out  of  the  yard.  I was  the  only  inside  passenger,  jolting  away 
knee-deep  in  straw,  when  I came  to  myself. 

For,  I really  Ijad  not  been  myself  since  the  receipt  of  the  letter ; it  had  so 
bewildered  me,  ensuing  on  the  hurry  of  the  morning.  The  morning  hurry  and 
flutter  had  been  great,  for,  long  and  anxiously  as  I had  waited  for  Wemmick, 
his  hint  had  come  like  a surprise  at  last.  And  now,  I began  to  wonder  at  myself 
for  being  in  the  coach,  and  to  doubt  whether  I had  sufficient  reason,  for  being 
there,  and  to  consider  whether  I should  get  out  presently  and  go  back,  and  to 
argue  against  ever  heeding  an  anonymous  communication,  and,  in  short,  to  pass 
through  all  those  phases  of  contradiction  and  indecision  to  which  I suppose  very 
few  hurried  people  are  strangers.  Still,  the  reference  to  Provis  by  name,  mastered 
everything.  I reasoned  as  I had  reasoned  already  without  knowing  it — if  that  be 
reasoning — in  case  any  harm  should  befal  him  through  my  not  going,  how  could 
I ever  forgive  myself ! 

It  was  dark  before  we  got  down,  and  the  journey  seemed  long  and  dreary  to  me 
who  could  see  little  of  it  inside,  and  who  could  not  go  outside  in  my  disabled 
state.  Avoiding  the  Blue  Boar,  I put  up  at  an  inn  of  minor  reputation  down  the 
town,  and  ordered  some  dinner.  While  it  was  preparing,  I went  to  Satis  House 
and  inquired  for  Miss  Havisham  ; she  was  still  very  ill,  though  considered  some- 
thing better. 

My  inn  had  once  been  a part  of  an  ancient  ecclesiastical  house,  and  I dined  in 
a little  octagonal  common-room,  like  a font.  As  I was  not  able  to  cut  my  dinner, 
the  old  landlord  with  a shining  bald  head  did  it  for  me.  This  bringing  us  into 
conversation,  he  was  so  good  as  to  entertain  me  with  my  own  story — ofc  uirsa 


Out  on  the  Marshes . 467 

mth  the  popular  feature  that  Pumblechook  was  my  earliest  benefactor  and  the 
founder  of  my  fortunes. 

“ Do  you  know  the  young  man  ?”  said  I. 

“ Know  him  ?”  repeated  the  landlord.  “ Ever  since  he  was — no  height  at  all.” 
“ Does  he  ever  come  back  to  this  neighbourhood  ?” 

“ Ay,  he  comes  back,”  said  the  landlord,  “ to  his  great  friends,  now  and  again, 
and  gives  the  cold  shoulder  to  the  man  that  made  him.” 

“ What  man  is  that  ?” 

“ Him  that  I speak  of,”  said  the  landlord.  “ Mr.  Pumblechook.” 

“Is  he  ungrateful  to  no  one  else ?” 

“ No  doubt  he  would  be,  if  he  could,”  returned  the  landlord,  “but  he  can’t. 
And  why  ? Because  Pumblechook  done  everything  for  him.” 

“ Does  Pumblechook  say  so  ? ” 

“ Say  so ! ” replied  the  landlord.  “ He  han’t  no  call  to  say  so.” 

“ But  does  he  say  so  ?”  • 

“It  would  turn  a man’s  blood  to  white  wine  winegar,  to  hear  him  tell  of  it, 
sir,”  said  the  landlord. 

I thought,  “ Yet  Joe,  dear  Joe,  you  never  tell  of  it.  Long-suffering  and  loving 
Joe,  you  never  complain.  Nor  you,  sweet-tempered  Biddy  !” 

“Your  appetite’s  been  touched  like,  by  your  accident,”  said  the  landlord, 
glancing  at  the  bandaged  arm  under  my  coat.  “ Try  a tenderer  bit.” 

“No  thank  you,”  I replied,  turning  from  the  table  to  brood  over  the  fire.  “I 
can  eat  no  more.  Please  take  it  away.” 

I had  never  been  struck  at  so  keenly,  for  my  thanklessness  to  Joe,  as  through 
the  brazen  impostor  Pumblechook.  The  falser  he,  the  truer  Joe  ; the  meaner 
he,  the  nobler  Joe. 

My  heart  was  deeply  and  most  deservedly  humbled  as  I mused  over  the  fire  for 
an  hour  or  more.  The  striking  of  the  clock  aroused  me,  but  not  from  my  dejec- 
tion or  remorse,  and  I got  up  and  had  my  coat  fastened  round  my  neck,  and  went 
out.  I had  previously  sought  in  my  pockets  for  the  letter,  that  I might  refer  to  it 
again,  but  I could  not  find  it,  and  was  uneasy  to  think  that  it  must  have  been 
dropped  in  the  straw  of  the  coach.  I knew  very  well,  however,  that  the  appointed 
place  was  the  little  sluice-house  by  the  limekiln  on  the  marshes,  and  the  hour 
nine.  Towards  the  marshes  I now  went  straight,  having  no  time  to  spare. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

It  was  a dark  night,  though  the  full  moon  rose  as  I left  the  enclosed  lands,  and 
passed  out  upon  the  marshes.  Beyond  their  dark  line  there  was  a ribbon  of  clear 
sky,  hardly  broad  enough  to  hold  the  red  large  moon.  In  a few  minutes  she  had 
ascended  out  of  that  clear  field,  in  among  the  piled  mountains  of  cloud. 

There  was  a melancholy  wind,  and  the  marshes  were  very  dismal.  A stranger 
would  have  found  them  insupportable,  and  even  to  me  they  were  so  oppressive 
that  I hesitated,  half  inclined  to  go  back.  But,  I knew  them,  and  could  have 
found  my  way  on  a far  larker  night,  and  had  no  excuse  for  returning,  being  there. 
So,  having  come  there  against  my  inclination,  I went  on  against  it. 

The  direction  that  I took,  was  not  that  in  which  my  old  home  lay,  nor  that  in 
which  we  had  pursued  the  convicts.  My  back  was  turned  towards  the  distant 
Hulks  is  I walked  on,  and,  though  I could  see  the  old  lights  away  on  the  spits  of 
6and,  I saw  them  over  my  shoulder.  I knew  the  limekiln  as  well  as  I knew  the 


463 


Great  Expectations . 


old  Battery,  but  they  were  miles  apart ; so  that  if  a light  had  been  burning  at  each 
point  that  night,  there  would  have  been  a long  strip  of  the  blank  horizon  between 
the  two  bright  specks. 

At  first,  I had  to  shut  some  gates  after  me,  and  now  and  then  to  stand  still  while 
the  cattle  that  were  lying  ir  the  bauked-up  pathway,  arose  and  blundered  down 
among  the  grass  and  reeds  But  alter  a little  w7hile,  I seemed  to  have  the  whole 
flats  to  myself. 

It  was  another  half-hour  before  I drew  near  to  the  kiln.  The  lime  was  burning 
with  a sluggish  stifling  smell,  but  the  fires  were  made  up  and  left,  and  no  work 
men  were  visible.  Hard  by  was  a small  stone-quarry.  It  lay  directly  in  my  way, 
and  had  been  worked  that  dav,  as  I saw  by  the  tools  and  barrows  that  were  lying 
about. 

Coming  up  again  to  the  marsh  level  out  of  this  excavation — for  the  rude  path 
lay  through  it — I saw  a light  in  the  old  sluice-house.  I quickened  my  pace,  and 
knocked  at  the  door  with  my  hand.  Waiting  for  some  reply,  I looked  about  me, 
noticing  how  the  sluice  was  abandoned  and  broken,  and  how  the  house — of  wood 
with  a tiled  roof — would  not  be  proof  against  the  weather  much  longer,  if  it  were 
so  even  now,  and  how  the  mud  and  ooze  were  coated  with  lime,  and  how  the 
choking  vapour  of  the  kiln  crept  in  a ghostly  way  towards  me.  Still  there  was  no 
answer,  and  I knocked  again.  No  answer  still,  and  I tried  the  latch. 

It  rose  under  my  hand,  and  the  door  yielded.  Looking  in,  I saw  a lighted 
candle  on  a table,  a bench,  and  a mattress  on  a truckle  bedstead.  As  there  was  ? 
loft  above,  I called,  “ Is  there  any  one  here  ? ” but  no  voice  answered.  Then,  I 
looked  at  my  watch,  and,  finding  that  it  was  past  nine,  called  again,  “Is  there 
any  one  here  ? ” There  being  still  no  answer,  I went  out  at  the  door,  irresolute 
what  to  do. 

It  was  beginning  to  rain  fast.  Seeing  nothing  save  what  I had  seen  already,  I 
turned  back  into  the  house,  and  stood  just  within  the  shelter  of  the  doorway, 
looking  out  into  the  night.  While  I was  considering  that  some  one  must  have 
been  there  lately  and  must  soon  be  coming  back,  or  the  candle  would  not  be  burning, 
it  came  into  my  head  to  look  if  the  wick  were  long.  I turned  round  to  do  so,  and 
had  taken  up  the  candle  in  my  hand,  when  it  was  extinguished  by  some  violent 
shock,  and  the  next  thing  I comprehended  was,  that  I had  been  caught  in  a strong 
running  noose,  thrown  over  my  head  from  behind. 

“ Now/’  said  a suppressed  voice  with  an  oath,  “ I’ve  got  you  ! ” 

“ What  is  this  ? ” I cried,  struggling.  “ Who  is  it  ? Help,  help,  help  ! ” 

Not  only  were  my  arms  pulled  close  to  my  sides,  but  the  pressure  on  my  bad 
arm  caused  me  exquisite  pain.  Sometimes  a strong  man’s  hand,  sometimes  a 
strong  man’s  breast,  was  set  against  my  mouth  to  deaden  my  cries,  and  with  a 
hot  breath  always  close  to  me,  I struggled  ineffectually  in  the  dark,  while  I was 
fastened  tight  to  the  wall.  “And  now,”  said  the  suppressed  voice  with  another 
oath,  “call  out  again,  and  I’ll  make  short  work  of  you  ! ” 

Faint  and  sick  with  the  pain  of  my  injured  arm,  bewildered  by  the  surprise,  and 
yet  conscious  how  easily  this  threat  could  be  put  in  execution,  I desisted,  and 
tried  to  ease  my  arm  were  it  ever  so  little.  But  it  was  bound  too  tight  for  that, 
I felt  as  if,  having  been  burnt  before,  it  were  now  being  boiled. 

The  sudden  exclusion  of  the  night  and  the  substitution  of  black  darkness  in  its 

ffface,  warned  me  that  the  man  had  closed  a shutter.  After  groping  about  for  a 
ittle,  he  found  the  flint  and  steel  he  wanted,  and  began  to  strike  a light  I 
strained  my  sight  upon  the  sparks  that  fell  among  the  tinder,  and  upon  which  he 
breathed  and  breathed,  match  in  hand,  but  I could  only  see  his  lips,  and  the  blue 
point  of  the  match ; even  those  but  fitfully.  The  tinder  was  damp — no  wondei 
th?^e— and  one  after  another  <he  sparks  died  out. 


I am  entrapped . 


469 


The  man  was  in  no  hurry,  and  struck  again  with  the  flint  and  steel.  As  the 
sparks  fell  thick  and  bright  about  him,  I could  see  his  hands  and  touches  of  his 
face,  and  could  make  out  that  he  was  seated  and  bending  over  the  table ; but 
nothing  more.  Presently  I saw  his  blue  lips  again,  breathing  on  the  tinder,  and 
then  a flare  of  light  flashed  up,  and  showed  me  Orlick. 

Whom  I had  looked  for,  I don’t  know.  I had  not  looked  for  him.  Seeing 
him,  I felt  that  I was  in  a dangerous  strait  indeed,  and  I kept  my  eyes  upon  him. 

He  lighted  the  candle  from  the  flaring  match  with  great  deliberation,  ana 
dropped  the  match,  and  trod  it  out.  Then,  he  put  the  candle  away  from  him  on 
the  ta^le,  so  that  he  could  see  me,  and  sat  with  his  arms  folded  on  the  table  and 
looked  at  me.  I made  out  that  I was  fastened  to  a stout  perpendicular  ladder  a 
few  inches  from  the  wall — a fixture  there — the  means  of  ascent  to  the  loft  above. 

“ Now,”  said  he,  when  we  had  surveyed  one  another  for  some  time,  “ I’ve  got 
you.” 

“ Unbind  me.  Let  me  go  ! ” 

“ Ah  ! M he  returned,  “ /’ll  let  you  go.  I’ll  let  you  go  to  the  moon,  I’ll  let  you 
go  to  the  stars.  All  in  good  time.” 

“ Why  have  you  lured  me  here  ? ” 

“ Don’t  you  know  ? ” said  he,  with  a deadly  look. 

“ Why  have  you  set  upon  me  in  the  dark  ? ” 

“ Because  I mean  to  do  it  all  myself.  One  keeps  a secret  better  than  two.  Oh 
you  enemy,  you  enemy  ! ” 

His  enjoyment  of  the  spectacle  I furnished,  as  he  sat  with  his  arms  folded  on 
the  table,  shaking  his  head  at  me  and  hugging  himself,  had  a malignity  in  it  that 
made  me  tremble.  As  I watched  him  in  silence,  he  put  his  hand  into  the  corner  at 
his  side,  and  took  up  a gun  with  a brass-bound  stock. 

“ Do  you  know  this  ? ” said  he,  making  as  if  he  would  take  aim  at  me.  “ Do 
you  know  where  you  saw  it  afore  ? Speak,  wolf!  ” 

“Yes,”  1 answered. 

“ You  cost  me  that  place.  You  did.  Speak  ! ” 

“ What  else  could  I do  ? ” 

“You  did  that,  and  that  would  be  enough,  without  more.  How  dared  you  com* 
betwixt  me  and  a young  woman  I liked  ? ” 

“When  did  I?” 

“When  didn’t  you?  It  was  you  as  always  give  Old  Orlick  a bad  name  to 
her.” 

“You  gave  it  to  yourself;  you  gained  it  for  yourself.  I could  have  done  you 
no  harm,  if  you  had  done  yourself  none.” 

“You’re  a liar.  And  you’ll  take  any  pains,  and  spend  any  money,  to  drive  me 
out  of  this  country,  will  you  ? ” said  he,  repeating  my  words  to  Biddy,  in  the  last 
interview  I had  with  her.  “Now,  I’ll  tell  you  a piece  of  information.  It  was 
never  so  worth  your  while  to  get  me  out  of  this  country,  as  it  is  to-night.  Ah  ! 
If  it  was  all  your  money  twenty  times  told,  to  the  last  brass  farden ! ” As  he 
shook  his  heavy  hand  at  me,  with  his  mouth  snarling  like  a tiger’s,  I felt  that  it 
was  true. 

“ What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me  ? ” 

“I’m  a going,”  said  he,  bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  table  with  a heavy 
blow,  and  rising  as  the  blow  fell,  to  give  it  greater  force,  “ I’m  a going  to  have  youi 
life ! ” 

He  leaned  forward  staring  at  me,  slowly  unclenched  his  hand  and  drew  it  across 
his  mouth  as  if  his  mouth  watered  for  me,  and  sat  down  again. 

“ You  was  always  in  Old  Orlick’s  way  since  ever  you  was  a child.  You  goes 
out  of  his  way  this  present  night  He’ll  have  no  more  on  you  Yotfre  dead.” 


47° 


Great  Expectations . 


I felt  th.it  I had  come  to  the  brink  of  my  grave.  For  a moment  I looked  wildly 
round  my  trap  for  any  chance  of  escape ; but  there  was  none. 

“ More  than  that,”  said  he,  folding  his  arms  on  the  table  again,  “ I won’t  have 
a rag  of  you,  I won’t  have  a bone  of  you,  left  on  earth.  I'll  put  your  body  in  the 
kiln — I’d  carry  two  such  to  it,  on  my  shoulders — and,  let  people  suppose  what 
they  may  of  you,  they  shall  never  know  nothing.” 

My  mind,  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  followed  out  all  the  consequences  of 
such  a death.  Estella’s  father  would  believe  I had  deserted  him,  would  be  taken, 
would  die  accusing  me ; even  Herbert  would  doubt  me,  when  he  compared  the 
letter  I had  left  for  him,  with  the  fact  that  I had  called  at  Miss  Havisbam’s  gate 
for  only  a moment ; Joe  and  Biddy  would  never  know  how  sorry  I had  been  that 
night,  none  would  ever  know  what  I had  suffered,  how  true  I had  meant  to  be, 
what  an  agony  I had  passed  through.  The  death  close  before  me  was  terrible, 
but  far  more  terrible  than  death  was  the  dread  of  being  misremeinbered  after 
death.  And  so  quick  were  my  thoughts,  that  I saw  myself  despised  by  unborn 
generations — Estella’s  children,  and  their  children — while  the  wretch’s  words 
were  yet  on  his  lips. 

“Now,  wolf,”  said  he,  “afore  I kill  you  like  any  other  beast — which  is  wot  1 
mean  to  do  and  wot  I have  tied  you  up  for — I’ll  have  a good  look  at  you  and  a 
good  goad  at  you.  Oh,  you  enemy ! ” 

It  had  passed  through  my  thoughts  to  cry  out  for  help  again ; though  few  could 
know  better  than  I,  the  solitary  nature  of  the  spot,  and  the  hopelessness  of  aid. 
But  as  he  sat  gloating  over  me,  I was  supported  by  a scornful  detestation  of  him 
that  sealed  my  lips.  Above  all  things,  I resolved  that  I would  not  entreat  him, 
and  that  I would  die  making  some  last  poor  resistance  to  him.  Softened  as  my 
thoughts  of  all  the  rest  of  men  were  in  that  dire  extremity ; humbly  beseeching 
pardon,  as  I did,  of  Heaven ; melted  at  heart,  as  I was,  by  the  thought  that  I had 
taken  no  farewell,  and  never  now  could  take  farewell,  of  those  who  were  dear  to 
me,  or  could  explain  myself  to  them,  or  a£k  for  their  compassion  on  my  miserable 
errors ; still,  if  I could  have  killed  him,  even  in  dying,  I would  have  done  it. 

He  had  been  drinking,  and  his  eyes  were  red  and  bloodshot.  Around  his  neck 
was  slung  a tin  bottle,  as  I had  often  seen  his  meat  and  drink  slung  about  him  in 
other  days.  He  brought  the  bottle  to  his  lips,  and  took  a fiery  drink  from  it ; and 
I smelt  the  strong  spirits  that  I saw  flash  into  his  face. 

“Wolf!”  said  he,  folding  his  arms  again,  “Old  Orlick’s  a going  to  tell  you 
somethink.  It  was  you  as  did  for  your  shrew  sister.” 

Again  my  mind,  with  its  former  inconceivable  rapidity,  had  exhausted  the  whole 
subject  of  the  attack  upon  my  sister,  her  illness,  and  her  death,  before  his  slow  and 
hesitating  speech  had  formed  those  words. 

“ It  was  you,  villain,”  said  I. 

“ I tell  you  it  was  your  doing — I tell  you  it  was  done  through  you,”  he  retorted, 
catching  up  the  gun,  and  making  a blow  with  the  stock  at  the  vacant  air  between 
us.  “I  come  upon  her  from  behind,  as  I come  upon  you  to-night.  I giv’  it  her  ! 
I left  her  for  dead,  and  if  there  had  been  a lime-kiln  as  nigh  her  as  there  is  now 
nigli  you,  she  shouldn’t  have  come  to  life  again.  But  it  warn’t  Old  Orlick  as  did 
it ; it  was  you.  You  was  favoured,  and  he  was  bullied  and  beat.  Old  Orlick 
bullied  and  beat,  eh  ? Now  you  pays  for  it.  You  done  it ; now  you  pays  for  it.” 

He  drank  again,  and  became  more  ferocious.  I saw  by  his  tilting  of  the  bottle 
that  there  was  no  great  quantity  left  in  it.  I distinctly  understood  that  he  was 
working  himself  up  with  its  contents,  to  make  an  end  of  me.  I knew  that  every 
drop  it  held,  was  a drop  of  my  life.  I knew  that  when  I was  changed  into  a part 
of  the  vapour  that  had  crept  towards  me  but  a little  while  before,  like  my  own 
warning  ghost,  he  would  do  as  he  had  done  in  my  sister’s  case — make  all  haste  to 


47i 


I stand  face  to  face  with  Death . 

the  town,  and  be  seen  slouching  about  there,  drinking  at  the  ale-houses.  My 
rapid  mind  pursued  him  to  the  town,  made  a picture  of  the  street  with  him  in  it, 
and  contrasted  its  lights  and  life  with  the  loneh  marsh  and  the  white  vapour 
creeping  over  it,  into  which  I should  have  dissolved. 

It  was  not  only  that  I could  have  summed  up  years  and  years  and  years  while 
he  said  a dozen  words,  but  that  what  he  did  say,  presented  pictures  to  me,  and  not 
mere^ words.  In  the  excited  and  exalted  state  of  my  brain,  I could  not  think  of  a 
place  without  seeing  it,  or  of  persons  without  seeing  them.  It  is  impossible  to 
over-state  the  vividness  of  these  images,  and  yet  I was  so  intent,  all  the  time,  upon 
him  himself — who  would  not  be  intent  on  the  tiger  crouching  to  spring ! — that  I 
knew  of  the  slightest  action  of  his  fingers. 

When  he  had  drunk  this  second  time,  he  rose  from  the  bench  on  which  he  sat, 
and  pushed  the  table  aside.  Then,  he  took  up  the  candle,  and  shading  it  with  his 
murderous  hand  so  as  to  throw  its  light  on  me,  stood  before  me,  looking  at  me  and 
enjoying  the  sight. 

“Wolf,  I’ll  tell  you  something  more.  It  was  Old  Orlick  as  you  tumbled  over 
on  your  stairs  that  night.” 

I saw  the  staircase  with  its  extinguished  lamps.  I saw  the  shadows  of  the 
heavy  stair-rails,  thrown  by  the  watchman’s  lantern  on  the  wall.  I saw  the  rooms 
that  I was  never  to  see  again ; here,  a door  half  open  ; there,  a door  closed ; all 
the  articles  of  furniture  around. 

“And  why  was  Old  Orlick  there?  I’ll  tell  you  somethirg  more,  wolf.  You 
and  her  have  pretty  well  hunted  me  out  of  this  country,  so  far  as  getting  a easy 
Hiving  in  it  goes,  and  I’ve  took  up  with  new  companions  and  new  masters.  Some 
of  ’em  writes  my  letters  when  I wants  ’em  wrote — do  you  mind  ? — writes  my 
letters,  wolf!  They  writes  fifty  hands ; they’re  not  like  sneaking  you,  as  writes 
but  one.  I’ve  had  a firm  mind  and  a firm  will  to  have  your  life,  since  you  was 
down  here  at  your  sister’s  burying.  I han’t  seen  a way  to  get  you  safe,  and  I’ve 
looked  arter  you  to  know  your  ins  and  outs.  For,  says  Old  Orlick  to  himself, 
‘ Somehow  or  another  I’ll  have  him ! ’ What ! When  I looks  for  you,  I finds 
your  uncle  Pro  vis,  eh  ? ” 

Mill  Pond  Bank,  and  Chinks’s  Basin,  and  the  Old  Green  Copper  Rope-Walk, 
all  so  clear  and  plain ! Provis  in  his  rooms,  the  signal  whose  use  was  over,  pretty 
Clara,  the  good  motherly  woman,  old  Bill  Barley  on  his  back,  all  drifting  by,  as 
on  the  swift  stream  of  my  life  fast  running  out  to  sea  ! 

“ You  with  a uncle  too ! Why,  I knowed  you  at  Gargery’s  when  you  was  so 
small  a wolf  that  I could  have  took  your  weazen  betwixt  this  finger  and  thumb 
and  chucked  you  away  dead  (as  I’d  thoughts  o’  doing,  odd  times,  when  I saw  you 
a loitering  among  the  pollards  on  a Sunday),  and  you  hadn’t  found  no  uncles 
then.  No,  not  you  ! But  w'hen  Old  Orlick  come  for  to  hear  that  your  uncle 
Provis  had  mostlike  wore  the  leg-iron  wot  Old  Orlick  had  picked  up,  filed  asunder, 
on  these  meshes  ever  so  many  year  ago,  and  wot  he  kep  by  him  till  he  dropped 
your  sister  with  it,  like  a bullock,  as  he  means  to  drop  you — hey  ? — when  he  come 
for  to  hear  that — hey  ? ” 

In  his  savage  taunting,  he  flared  the  candle  so  close  at  me,  that  I turned  my  face 
aside  to  save  it  from  the  flame. 

“Ah!”  he  cried,  laughing,  after  doing  it  again,  “the  burnt  child  dreads  the 
fire  ! Old  Orlick  knowed  you  was  burnt,  Old  Orlick  knowed  you  w'as  a smuggling 
your  uncle  Provis  away,  Old  Orlick ’s  a match  for  you  and  know’d  you’d  come  to- 
nigh. ! Now  I’ll  tell  you  something  more,  wolf,  and  this  ends  it.  There’s  them 
that’  as  good  a match  for  your  uncle  Provis  as  Old  Orlick  has  been  for  you.  Let 
hi  n ’ware  them  when  he’s  lost  his  newy.  Let  him  ’ware  them,  when  no  man 
can’t  mid  a rag  of  his  dear  relation’s  clothes,  nor  yet  a bone  of  his  body.  Ihc*:  » 


472 


Gr  at  Expectations . 


them  that  can’t  and  that  won’t  have  Magwitch — yes,  /know  the  name  ! — alive  in 
the  same  land  with  them,  and  that’s  had  such  sure  information  of  him  when  he 
was  alive  in  another  land,  as  that  he  couldn’t  and  shouldn’t  leave  it  unbeknown 
and  put  them  in  danger.  P’raps  it’s  them  that  writes  fifty  hands,  and  that’s  not 
like  sneaking  you  as  writes  but  one.  ’Ware  Compeyson,  Magwitch,  and  fhe 
gallows ! ” 

He  flared  the  candle  at  me  again,  smoking  my  face  and  hair,  and  for  an  instant 
blinding  me,  and  turned  his  powerful  back  as  he  replaced  the  light  on  the  table. 
I had  thought  a prayer,  and  had  been  with  Joe  and  Biddy  and  Herbert,  before  ho 
turned  towards  me  again. 

There  was  a clear  space  of  a few  feet  between  the  table  and  the  opposite  wall. 
Within  this  space,  he  now  slouched  backwards  and  forwards.  His  great  strength 
seemed  to  sit  stronger  upon  him  than  ever  before,  as  he  did  this  with  his  hands 
hanging  loose  and  heavy  at  his  sides,  and  with  his  eyes  scowling  at  me.  I had 
no  grain  of  hope  left.  Wild  as  my  inward  hurry  was,  and  wonderful  the  force  of 
the  pictures  that  rushed  by  me  instead  of  thoughts,  I could  yet  clearly  understand 
that  unless  he  had  resolved  that  I was  within  a few  moments  of  surely  perishing 
out  of  all  human  knowledge,  he  would  never  have  told  me  what  he  had  told. 

Of  a sudden,  he  stopped,  took  the  cork  out  of  his  bottle,  and  tossed  it  away. 
Light  as  it  was,  I heard  it  fall  like  a plummet.  He  swallowed  slowly,  tilting  up 
the  bottle  by  little  and  little,  and  now  he  looked  at  me  no  more.  The  last  feu 
drops  of  liquor  he  poured  into  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  licked  up.  Then  with  a 
sudden  hurry  of  violence  and  swearing  horribly,  he  threw  the  bottle  from  him,  and 
stooped  ; and  I saw  in  his  hand  a stone-hammer  with  a long  heavy  handle. 

The  resolution  I had  made  did  not  desert  me,  for,  without  uttering  one  vain 
word  of  appeal  to  him,  I shouted  out  with  all  my  might,  and  struggled  with  all 
my  might.  It  was  only  my  head  and  my  legs  that  I could  move,  but  to  that 
extent  I struggled  with  all  the  force,  until  then  unknown,  that  was  within  me. 
In  the  same  instant  I heard  responsive  shouts,  saw  figures  and  a gleam  of  light 
dash  in  at  the  door,  heard  voices  and  tumult,  and  saw  Orlick  emerge  from  a 
struggle  of  men,  as  if  it  were  tumbling  water,  clear  the  table  at  a leap,  and  fly 
out  into  the  night ! 

After  a blank,  I found  that  I was  lying  unbound,  on  the  floor,  in  the  same 
place,  with  my  head  on  some  one’s  knee.  My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ladder 
against  the  wall,  when  I came  to  myself — had  opened  on  it  before  my  mind  saw 
it — and  thus  as  I recovered  consciousness,  I knew  that  I was  in  the  place  where  I 
had  lost  it. 

Too  indifferent  at  first,  even  to  look  round  and  ascertain  who  supported  me,  I 
was  lying  looking  at  the  ladder,  when  there  came  between  me  and  it,  a face. 
The  face  of  Trabb’s  boy  ! 

“ I think  he’s  all  right ! ” said  Trabb’s  boy,  in  a sober  voice ; “ but  ain’t  he  just 
pale  though  ! ” 

At  these  words,  the  face  of  him  who  supported  me  looked  over  into  mine,  and 
, I saw  my  supporter  to  be 

“ Herbert ! Great  Heaven  ! ” 

“ Softly,”  said  Herbert.  “ Gently,  Handel.  Don’t  be  too  eager.” 

“ And  our  old  comrade,  Startop  ! ” I cried,  as  he  too  bent  over  me. 

“ Remember  what  he  is  going  to  assist  us  in,”  said  Herbert,  “ and  be  calm.” 

The  allusion  made  me  spring  up  ; though  I dropped  again  from  tjje  pain  in  my 
arm.  “ The  time  has  not  gone  by,  Herbert,  has  it  ? What  night  is  to-night  ? 
How  long  have  I been  here  ? ” For,  I had  a strange  and  strong  misgiving 
that  I had  been  lying  there  a long  time — a day  and  a night-  two  days  ard 
nights — more. 


473 


My  Life  is  preserved. 

**  The  time  has  not  gone  by.  It  is  still  Monday  night.” 

“ Thank  God  ! ” 

“And  you  have  all  to-morrow,  Tuesday,  to  rest  in,”  said  Herbert.  “ But  you 
can’t  help  groaning,  my  dear  Handel.  What  hurt  have  you  got  ? Can  yov 

stand  ? ” 

“ Yes,  yes,”  said  I,  “ I can  walk.  I have  no  hurt  but  in  this  throbbing  arm.” 

They  laid  it  bare,  and  did  what  they  could.  It  was  violently  swollen  and 
inflamed,  and  I could  scarcely  endure  to  have  it  touched.  But,  they  tore  up 
their  handkerchiefs  to  make  fresh  bandages,  and  carefully  replaced  it  in  the  sling, 
until  we  could  get  to  the  town  and  obtain  some  cooling  lotion  to  put  upon  it.  In 
a little  while  we  had  shut  the  door  of  the  dark  and  empty  sluice-house,  and  were 
passing  through  the  quarry  on  our  way  back.  Trabb’s  boy — Trabb’s  overgrown 
young  man  now — went  before  us  with  a lantern,  which  was  the  light  I had  seen 
come  in  at  the  door.  But,  the  moon  was  a good  two  hours  higher  than  when  I 
had  last  seen  the  sky,  and  the  night  though  rainy  was  much  lighter.  The  white 
vapour  of  the  kiln  was  passing  from  us  as  we  went  by,  and,  as  I had  thought  a 
prayer  before,  I thought  a thanksgiving  now. 

Entreating  Herbert  to  tell  me  how  he  had  come  to  my  rescue — which  at  first 
he  had  flatly  refused  to  do,  but  had  insisted  on  my  remaining  quiet — I learnt  that 
I had  in  my  hurry  dropped  the  letter,  open,  in  our  chambers,  where  he,  coming 
home  to  bring  with  him  Startop,  whom  he  had  met  in  the  street  on  his  way  to 
me,  found  it,  very  soon  after  I was  gone.  Its  tone  made  him  uneasy,  and  the 
more  so  because  of  the  inconsistency  between  it  and  the  hasty  letter  I had  left  for 
him.  His  uneasiness  increasing  instead  of  subsiding  after  a quarter  of  an  hour’? 
consideration,  he  set  off  for  the  coach -office,  with  Startop,  who  volunteered  his 
company,  to  make  inquiry  when  the  next  coach  went  down.  Finding  that  the 
afternoon  coach  was  gone,  and  finding  that  his  uneasiness  grew  into  positive 
alarm,  as  obstacles  came  in  his  way,  he  resolved  to  follow  in  a post-chaise.  So,  he 
and  Startop  arrived  at  the  Blue  Boar,  fully  expecting  there  to  find  me,  or  tidings  of 
me ; but,  finding  neither,  went  on  to  Miss  Havisham’s,  where  they  lost  me. 
Hereupon  they  went  back  to  the  hotel  (doubtless  at  about  the  time  when  I was 
hearing  the  popular  local  version  of  my  own  story),  to  refresh  themselves  and  to 
get  some  one  to  guide  them  out  upon  the  marshes.  Among  the  loungers  under 
the  Boar’s  archway,  happened  to  be  Trabb’s  boy — true  to  his  ancient  habit  of 
happening  to  be  everywhere  where  he  had  no  business — and  Trabb’s  boy  had 
seen  me  passing  from  Miss  Havisham’s,  in  the  direction  of  my  dining-place. 
Thus,  Trabb’s  boy  became  their  guide,  and  with  him  they  went  out  to  the  sluice- 
house  : though  by  the  town  way  to  the  marshes,  which  I had  avoided.  Now,  as 
they  went  along,  Herbert  reflected,  that  I might,  after  all,  have  been  brought 
there  on  some  genuine  and  serviceable  errand  tending  to  Provis’s  safety,  and 
bethinking  himself  that  in  that  case  interruption  might  be  mischievous,  left  his 
guide  and  Startop  on  the  edge  of  the  quarry,  and  went  on  by  himself,  and  stole 
round  the  house  two  or  three  times,  endeavouring  to  ascertain  whether  all  was 
right  within.  As  he  could  hear  nothing  but  indistinct  sounds  of  one  deep  rough 
s jice  (this  was  while  my  mind  was  so  busy),  he  even  at  last  began  to  doubt 
whether  I was  there,  when  suddenly  I cried  out  loudly,  and  he  answered  the  cries, 
and  rushed  in,  closely  followed  by  the  other  two. 

When  I told  Herbert  what  had  passed  within  the  house,  he  was  for  our  imme- 
diately going  before  a magistrate  in  the  town,  late  at  night  as  it  was,  and  getting 
out  a warrant.  But,  I had  already  considered  that  such  a course,  by  detaining 
us  there,  or  binding  us  to  come  back,  might  be  fatal  to  Provis.  There  was  no 
gainsaying  this  difficulty,  and  we  relinquished  all  thoughts  of  pursuing  Orlick  at 
that  time.  For  the  present,  under  the  circumstances,  we  deemed  it  piudent  to 


474 


Great  Expectations . 


make  rather  light  of  the  matter  to  Trabb’s  boy ; who  I am  convinced  would  have 
been  much  affected  by  disappointment,  if  he  had  known  that  his  intervention 
saved  me  from  the  limekiln.  Not  that  Trabb’s  boy  was  of  a malignant  nature, 
but  that  he  had  too  much  spare  vivacity,  and  that  it  was  in  his  constitution  to 
want  variety  and  excitement  at  anybody’s  expense.  When  we  parted,  I pre- 
sented him  with  two  guineas  (which  seemed  to  meet  his  views),  and  told  him  that 
I was  sorry  ever  to  have  had  an  ill  opinion  of  him  (which  made  no  impression 
on  him  at  all). 

Wednesday  being  so  close  upon  us,  we  determined  to  go  back  to  London 
that  night,  three  in  the  post-chaise ; the  rather,  as  we  should  then  be  clear 
away,  before  the  night’s  adventure  began  to  be  talked  of.  Herbert  got  a large 
bottle  of  stuff  for  my  arm,  and  by  dint  of  having  this  stuff  dropped  over  it  all 
the  night  through,  I was  just  able  to  bear  its  pain  on  the  journey.  It  was 
daylight  when  we  reached  the  Temple,  and  I went  at  once  to  bed,  and  lay  in  bed 
all  day. 

My  terror,  as  I lay  there,  of  falling  ill  and  being  unfitted  for  to-morrow,  was  so 
besetting,  that  I wonder  it  did  not  disable  me  of  itself.  It  would  have  done  so, 
pretty  surely,  in  conjunction  with  the  mental  wear  and  tear  I had  suffered,  but 
for  the  unnatural  strain  upon  me  that  to-morrow  was.  So  anxiously  looked  for- 
ward to,  charged  with  such  consequences,  its  results  so  impenetrably  hidden 
though  so  near. 

No  precaution  could  have  been  more  obvious  than  our  refraining  from  commu- 
nication with  him  that  day  ; yet  this  again  increased  my  restlessness.  I started 
at  every  footstep  and  every  sound,  believing  that  he  was  discovered  and  taken, 
and  this  was  the  messenger  to  tell  me  so.  I persuaded  myself  that  I knew  he  was 
taken;  that  there  was  something  more  upon  my  mind  than  a fear  or  a presenti- 
ment ; that  the  fact  had  occurred,  and  I had  a mysterious  knowledge  of  it.  As 
the  day  wore  on  and  no  ill  news  came,  as  the  day  closed  in  and  darkness  fell,  my 
overshadowing  dread  of  being  disabled  by  illness  before  to-morrow  morning, 
altogether  mastered  me.  My  burning  arm  throbbed,  and  my  burning  head 
throbbed,  and  I fancied  I was  beginning  to  wander.  I counted  up  to  high  num- 
bers, to  make  sure  of  myself,  and  repeated  passages  that  I knew  in  prose  and 
verse.  It  happened  sometimes  that  in  the  mere  escape  of  a fatigued  mind,  I 
dozed  for  some  moments  or  forgot ; then  I would  say  to  myself  with  a start, 
“ Now  it  has  come,  and  I am  turning  delirious  ! ” 

They  kept  me  very  quiet  all  day,  and  kept  my  arm  constantly  dressed,  and  gave 
me  cooling  drinks.  Whenever  I fell  asleep,  I awoke  with  the  notion  I had  had 
in  the  sluice-house,  that  a long  time  had  elapsed  and  the  opportunity  to  save  him 
was  gone.  About  midnight  I got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  Herbert,  with  the  con- 
viction that  I had  been  asleep  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  that  Wednesday 
was  past.  It  was  the  last  self-exhausting  effort  of  my  fretfulness,  for  after  that,  T 
slept  soundly. 

Wednesday  morning  was  dawning  when  I looked  out  of  window.  The  wink- 
ing  lights  upon  the  bridges  were  already  pale,  the  coming  sun  was  like  a marsh  ot 
fire  on  the  horizon.  The  river,  still  dark  and  mysterious,  was  spanned  by  bridges 
that  were  turning  coldly  grey,  with  here  and  there  at  top  a warm  touch  from  the 
burning  in  the  sky.  As  I looked  along  the  clustered  roofs,  with  church  towers 
and  spires  shooting  into  the  unusually  clear  air,  the  sun  rose  up,  and  a veil  seemed 
to  be  drawn  from  the  river,  and  millions  of  sparkles  burst  out  upon  its  waters. 
From  me,  too,  a veil  seemed  to  be  drawn,  and  I felt  strong  and  well. 

Herbert  lay  asleep  in  his  bed,  and  our  old  fellow-student  lay  asleep  on  the  sofa. 
1 could  not  dress  myself  without  help,  but  I made  up  the  fire  which  was  still  burn- 
ing, and  got  some  coffee  ready  for  them.  In  good  time  they  too  started  up  strong 


The  time  draws  near  for  hi:  escape.  475 


and  well,  and  we  admitted  the  sharp  morning  air  at  the  windows,  and  looked  at 
the  tide  that  was  still  flowing  towards  us. 

“ When  it  turns  at  nine  o’clock,”  said  Herbert,  cheerfully,  **  look  out  for  us, 
and  stand  ready,  you  over  there  at  Mill  Pond  Bank ! ” 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

It  was  one  of  those  March  days  when  the  sun  shines  hot  and  the  wind  blow 
cold  : when  it  is  summer  in  the  light,  and  winter  in  the  shade.  We  had  our  pea- 
coats  with  us,  and  I took  a bag.  Of  all  my  worldly  possessions  I took  no  more 
than  the  few  necessaries  that  filled  the  bag.  Where  I might  go,  what  I might 
do,  or  when  I might  return,  were  questions  utterly  unknown  to  me  ; nor  did  I 
vex  my  mind  with  them,  for  it  was  wholly  set  on  Provis’s  safety.  I only  won- 
dered for  the  passing  moment,  as  I stopped  at  the  door  and  looked  back,  under 
what  altered  circumstances  I should  next  see  those  rooms,  if  ever. 

We  loitered  down  to  the  Temple  stairs,  and  stood  loitering  there,  as  if  we  were 
not  quite  decided  to  go  upon  the  water  a*  all.  Of  course  I had  taken  care  that 
the  boat  should  be  ready,  and  everything  in  order.  After  a little  show  of  indeci- 
sion, which  there  were  none  to  see  but  the  two  or  three  amphibious  creatures 
belonging  to  our  Temple  stairs,  we  went  on  board  and  cast  off ; Herbert  in  the 
bow,  I steering.  It  was  then  about  high-water — half-past  eight. 

Our  plan  was  this.  The  tide,  beginning  to  run  down  at  nine,  and  being  with 
us  until  three,  we  intended  still  to  creep  on  after  it  had  turned,  and  row  against 
it  until  dark.  We  should  then  be  well  in  those  long  reaches  below  Gravesend, 
between  Kent  and  Essex,  where  the  river  is  broad  and  solitary,  where  the  water- 
side inhabitants  are  very  few,  and  where  lone  public-houses  are  scattered  here  and 
there,  of  which  we  could  choose  one  for  a resting-place.  There,  we  meant  to  he 
by,  all  night.  The  steamer  for  Hamburg,  and  the  steamer  for  Rotterdam,  would 
start  from  London  at  about  nine  on  Thursday  morning.  We  should  know  at 
what  time  to  expect  them,  according  to  where  we  were,  and  would  hail  the  first ; 
so  that  if  by  any  accident  we  were  not  taken  aboard,  we  should  have  another 
chance.  We  knew  the  distinguishing  marks  of  each  vessel. 

The  relief  of  being  at  last  engaged  in  the  execution  of  the  purpose,  was  so  great 
to  me  that  I felt  it  difficult  to  realise  the  condition  in  which  I had  been  in  a few 
hours  before.  The  crisp  air,  the  sunlight,  the  movement  on  the  river,  and  the 
moving  river  itself — the  road  that  ran  with  us,  seeming  to  sympathise  with  us, 
animate  us,  and  encourage  us  on — freshened  me  with  new  hope.  I felt  mortified 
to  be  of  so  little  use  in  the  boat ; but  there  were  few  better  oarsmen  than  my  two 
friends,  and  they  rowed  with  a steady  stroke  that  was  to  last  all  day. 

At  that  time,  the  steam-traffic  on  the  Thames  was  far  below  its  present  extent, 
ar>d  watermen’s  boats  were  far  more  numerous.  Of  barges,  sailing  colliers,  and 
coasting  traders,  there  were  perhaps  as  many  as  now  ; but,  of  steam-ships,  great 
and  small,  not  a tithe  or  a twentieth  part  so  many.  Early  as  it  was,  there  were 
plenty  of  scullers  going  here  and  there  that  morning,  and  plenty  of  barges 
dropping  down  with  the  tide  ; the  navigation  of  the  river  between  bridges,  in  an 
open  boat  was  a much  easier  and  commoner  matter  in  those  days  than  it  is  in 
these  ; and  we  W’ent  ahead  among  many  skiffs  and  wherries,  briskly. 

Old  London  Bridge  was  soon  passed,  and  old  Billingsgate  market  with  its 
oyster-boats  and  Dutchmen,  and  the  White  Tower  and  Traitor’s  Gate,  and  we 
were  in  among  the  tiers  of  shipping.  Here,  were  the  Leith,  Aberdeen,  and  Glasgow 


Grta{  Expectations. 


476 


steamers,  loading  and  unloading  goods,  and  looking  immensely  high  oat  of  the 
water  as  we  passed  alongside  ; here,  were  colliers  by  the  score  and  score,  with 
the  coal-whippers  plunging  off  stages  on  deck,  as  counterweights  to  measures  oi 
coal  swinging  up,  which  were  then  rattled  over  the  side  into  barges  ; here,  at  her 
moorings,  was  to-morrow’s  steamer  for  Rotterdam,  of  which  we  took  good  notice; 
and  here  to-morrow’s  for  Hamburg,  under  whose  bowsprit  we  crossed.  And 
now,  I sitting  in  the  stern,  could  see  with  a faster  beating  heart,  Mill  Pond  Bank 
and  Mill  Pond  stairs. 

“Is  he  there  ?”  said  Herbert. 

“ Not  yet.” 

“ Right ! He  was  not  to  come  down  till  he  saw  us.  Can  you  see  his  signal  ?” 

“ Not  well  from  here ; but  I think  I see  it. — Now  I see  him  ! Pull  both.  Easy, 
Herbert.  Oars  ! ” 

We  touched  the  stairs  lightly  for  a single  moment,  and  he  was  on  board  and  we 
were  off  again.  He  had  a boat-cloak  with  him,  and  a black  canvas  bag,  and  he 
looked  as  like  a river-pilot  as  my  heart  could  have  wished. 

“Dear  boy!”  he  said,  putting  his  arm  on  my  shoulder,  as  he  took  his  seat. 
“ Faithful  dear  boy,  well  done.  Thankye,  thankye  ! ” 

Again  among  the  tiers  of  shipping,  in  and  out,  avoiding  rusty  chain-cables, 
frayed  hempen  hawsers,  and  bobbing  buoys,  sinking  for  the  moment  floating 
broken  baskets,  scattering  floating  chips  of  wood  and  shaving,  cleaving  floating 
scum  of  coal,  in  and  out,  under  the  figure-head  of  the  John  of  Sunderland  making 
a speech  to  the  winds  (as  is  done  by  many  Johns),  and  the  Betsy  of  Yarmouth 
with  a firm  formality  of  bosom  and  her  nobby  eyes  starting  two  inches  out  of  her 
head ; in  and  orit,  hammers  going  in  ship-builders’  yards,  saws  going  at  timber, 
clashing  engines  going  at  things  unknown,  pumps  going  in  leaky  ships,  capstans 
going,  ships  going  out  to  sea,  and  unintelligible  sea-creatures  roaring  curses  over 
the  bulwarks  at  respondent  lightermen  ; in  and  out — out  at  last  upon  the  clearer 
river,  where  the  ships’  boys  might  take  their  fenders  in,  no  longer  fishing  in 
troubled  waters  with  them  over  the  side,  and  where  the  festooned  sails  might  fly 
out  to  the  wind. 

At  the  Stairs  where  we  had  taken  him  aboard,  and  ever  since,  I had  looked 
warily  for  any  token  of  our  being  suspected.  I had  seen  none.  We  certainly  had 
not  been,  and  at  that  time  as  certainly  we  were  not,  either  attended  or  followed  by 
any  boat.  If  we  had  been  waited  on  by  any  boat,  I should  have  run  in  to  shore, 
and  have  obliged  her  to  go  on,  or  to  make  her  purpose  evident.  But,  we  held  out 
own,  without  any  appearance  of  molestation. 

He  had  his  boat-cloak  on  him,  and  looked,  as  I have  said,  a natural  part  of  the 
scene.  It  was  remarkable  (but  perhaps  the  wretched  life  he  had  led  accounted  for 
it),  that  he  was  the  least  anxious  of  any  of  us.  He  was  not  indifferent,  for  he 
told  me  that  he  hoped  to  live  to  see  his  gentleman  one  of  the  best  of  gentlemen 
in  a foreign  country ; he  was  not  disposed  to  be  passive  or  resigned,  as  I under- 
stood it ; but  he  had  no  notion  of  meeting  danger  half  way.  When  it  came  upon 
him,  he  confronted  it,  but  it  must  come  before  he  troubled  himself. 

“If  you  knowed,  dear  boy,”  he  said  to  me,  “what  it  is  to  sit  here  alonger  my 
dear  boy  and  have  my  smoke,  arter  having  been  day  by  day  betwixt  four  walls, 
you’d  envy  me.  But  you  don’t  know  what  it  is.” 

“I  think  I know  the  delights  of  freedom,”  I answered. 

“Ah,”  said  he,  shaking  his  head  gravely.  “But  you  don’t  know  it  equal 
to  me.  You  must  have  been  under  lock  and  key,  dear  boy,  to  know  it  equal  to 
me — but  I ain’t  a going  to  be  low.” 

It  occurred  to  me  as  inconsistent,  that  for  any  mastering  idea,  he  should  havn 
endangered  his  freedom  and  even  his  life.  But  I reflected  that  perhaps  freedom 


We  take  bttn  on  Board. 


All 


without  danger  was  too  much  apart  from  all  the  habit  of  his  existence  to  be  to  him 
vnat  it  would  be  to  another  man.  I was  not  far  out,  since  he  said,  after  smoking 
a little  : 

“You  see,  dear  boy,  when  I was  over  yonder,  t’other  side  the  world,  I was 
always  a looking  to  this  side  ; and  it  come  flat  to  be  there,  for  all  I was  a growing 
nch.  Everybody  kno wed  Magwitch,  and  Magwitch  could  come,  and  Magwitch 
could  go,  and  nobody’s  head  would  be  troubled  about  him.  They  ain’t  so  easy 
concerning  me  here,  dear  boy — wouldn’t  be,  leastwise,  if  they  knowed  where  I was.” 

“ If  all  goes  well,”  said  I,  “you  will  be  perfectly  free  and  safe  again,  within  a 
few  hours.” 

“ Well,”  he  returned,  drawing  a long  breath,  “ I hope  so.” 

“ And  think  so  ?” 

He  dipped  his  hand  in  the  water  over  the  boat’s  gunwale,  and  said,  smiling 
with  that  softened  air  upon  him  which  was  not  new  to  me  : 

“Ay,  I s’pose  I think  so,  dear  boy.  We’d  be  puzzled  to  be  more  quiet  and 
easy-going  than  we  are  at  present.  Bilt — it’s  a flowing  so  soft  and  pleasant 
through  the  water,  p’raps,  as  makes  me  think  it — I was  a thinking  through  my 
smoke  just  then,  that  we  can  no  more  see  to  the  bottom  of  the  next  few  hours, 
than  we  can  see  to  the  bottom  of  this  river  what  I catches  hold  of.  Nor  yet  we 
can’t  no  more  hold  their  tide  than  I can  hold  this.  And  it’s  run  through  my 
fingers  and  gone,  you  see  ! ” holding  up  his  dripping  hand. 

“ But  for  your  face,  I should  think  you  were  a little  despondent,”  said  I. 

“ Not  a bit  on  it,  dear  boy ! It  comes  of  flowing  on  so  quiet,  and  of  that  there 
rippling  at  the  boat’s  head  making  a sort  of  a Sunday  tune.  Maybe  I’m  a growing 
a trifle  old  besides.” 

He  put  his  pipe  back  in  his  mouth  with  an  undisturbed  expression  of  face,  and 
sat  as  composed  and  contented  as  if  we  were  already  out  of  England.  Yet  he 
was  as  submissive  to  a word  of  advice  as  if  he  had  been  in  constant  terror,  for, 
when  we  ran  ashore  to  get  some  bottles  of  beer  into  the  boat,  and  he  was  stepping 
out,  I hinted  that  I thought  he  would  be  safest  where  he  was,  and  he  said,  “ Do 
you,  dear  boy  ?”  and  quietly  sat  down  again. 

The  air  felt  cold  upon  the  river,  but  it  was  a bright  day,  and  the  sunshine  was 
very  cheering.  The  tide  ran  strong,  I took  care  to  lose  none  of  it,  and  our  steady 
stroke  carried  us  on  thoroughly  well.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  as  the  tide  ran 
out,  we  lost  more  and  more  of  the  nearer  woods  and  hills,  and  dropped  lower  and 
lower  between  the  muddy  banks,  but  the  tide  was  yet  with  us  when  we  were  off 
Gravesend.  As  our  charge  was  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  I purposely  passed  within  a 
boat  or  two’s  length  of  the  floating  Custom  House,  and  so  out  to  catch  the  stream, 
alongside  of  two  emigrant  ships,  and  under  the  bows  of  a large  transport  with 
troops  on  the  forecastle  looking  down  at  us.  And  soon  the  tide  began  to  slacken, 
and  the  craft  lying  at  anchor  to  swing,  and  presently  they  had  all  swung  round, 
and  the  ships  that  were  taking  advantage  of  the  new*  tide  to  get  up  to  the  Pool, 
began  to  crowd  upon  us  in  a fleet,  and  we  kept  under  the  shore,  as  much  out  of 
the  strength  of  the  tide  now  as  we  could,  standing  carefully  off  from  low  shallows 
and  mud-banks. 

Oui  oarsmen  were  so  fresh,  by  dint  of  having  occasionally  let  her  drive  with  the 
tide  for  a minute  or  two,  that  a quarter  of  an  hour’s  rest  proved  full  as  much  as 
they  wanted.  We  got  ashore  among  some  slippery  stones  while  we  ate  and 
drank  what  we  had  with  us,  and  looked  about.  It  was  like  my  own  marsh  country, 
flat  and  monotonous,  and  with  a dim  horizon  ; while  the  winding  river  turned  and 
turned,  and  the  great  floating  buoys  upon  it  turned  and  turned,  and  everything 
else  seemed  stranded  and  still.  For,  now,  the  last  of  the  fleet  of  ships  was  round 
the  last  low  point  we  had  headed  ; and  the  last  green  barge,  straw-laden,  with  s 


478 


Great  Expectations. 


brown  sail,  had  followed  ; and  some  ballast-lighters,  shaped  like  a child's  first 
rude  imitation  of  a boat,  lay  low  in  the  mud;  and  a little  squat  shoal-lighthouse 
on  open  piles,  stood  crippled  in  the  mud  on  stilts  and  crutches  ; and  slimy  stakes 
stuck  out  of  the  mud,  and  slimy  stones  stuck  out  of  the  mud,  and  red  landmarks 
and  tidemarks  stuck  out  of  the  mud,  and  an  old  landing-stage  and  an  old  roofless 
building  slipped  into  the  mud,  and  all  about  us  was  stagnation  and  mud. 

We  pushed  off  again,  and  made  what  way  we  could  It  was  much  harder  work 
now,  but  Herbert  and  Startop  persevered,  and  rowed,  and  rowed,  and  rowed, 
until  the  sun  went  down.  By  that  time  the  river  had  lifted  us  a little,  so  that  we 
could  see  above  the  bank.  There  was  the  red  sun,  on  the  low  level  of  the  shore, 
in  a purple  haze,  fast  deepening  into  black  ; and  there  was  the  solitary  flat  marsh  ; 
and  far  away  there  were  the  rising  grounds,  between  which  and  us  there  seemed 
to  be  no  life,  save  here  and  there  in  the  foreground  a melancholy  gull. 

As  the  night  was  fast  falling,  and  as  the  moon,  being  past  the  full,  would  not 
rise  early,  we  held  a little  council  : a short  one,  for  clearly  our  course  was  to  lie 
by  at  the  first  lonely  tavern  we  could  find.  So,  they  plied  their  oars  once  more, 
and  I looked  out  for  anything  like  a house.  Thus  we  held  on,  speaking  little,  for 
four  or  five  dull  miles.  It  was  very  cold,  and  a collier  coming  by  us,  with  her 
galley-fire  smoking  and  flaring,  looked  like  a comfortable  home.  The  night  was 
dark  by  this  time  as  it  would  be  until  morning ; what  light  we  had,  seemed  to 
come  more  from  the  river  than  the  sky,  as  the  oars  in  their  dipping  struck  at  a few 
reflected  stars. 

At  this  dismal  time  we  were  evidently  all  possessed  by  the  idea  that  we  were 
followed.  As  the  tide  made,  it  flapped  heavily  at  irregular  intervals  against  the 
shore ; and  whenever  such  a sound  came,  one  or  other  of  us  was  sure  to  start  and 
look  in  that  direction.  Here  and  there,  the  set  of  the  current  had  worn  down  the 
bank  into  a little  creek,  and  we  were  all  suspicious  of  such  places,  and  eyed  them 
nervously.  Sometimes,  “ What  was  that  ripple  ? ” one  of  us  would  say  in  a low 
voice.  Or  another,  “Is  that  a boat  yonder?”  And  afterwards,  we  would  fall 
into  a dead  silence,  and  I would  sit  impatiently  thinking  with  what  an  unusual 
amount  of  noise  the  oars  worked  in  the  thowels. 

At  length  we  descried  a light  and  a roof,  and  presently  afterwards  ran  alongside 
a little  causeway  made  of  stones  that  had  been  picked  up  hard  by.  Leaving  the 
rest  in  the  boat,  I stepped  ashore,  and  found  the  light  to  be  in  the  window  of  a 
public-house.  It  was  a dirty  place  enough,  and  I dare  say  not  unknown  to  smug- 
gling adventurers  ; but  there  was  a good  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and  there  were  eggs 
and  bacon  to  eat,  and  various  liquors  to  drink.  Also,  there  were  two  double- 
bedded  rooms — “ such  as  they  were,”  the  landlord  said.  No  other  company  was 
in  the  house  than  the  landlord,  his  wife,  and  a grizzled  male  creature,  the  “ Jack  ” 
of  the  little  causeway,  who  was  as  slimy  and  smeary  as  if  he  had  been  low 
water-mark  too. 

With  this  assistant,  I went  down  to  the  boat  again,  and  we  all  came  ashore,  and 
brought  out  the  oars,  and  rudder,  and  boat-hook,  and  all  else,  and  hauled  her  up 
for  the  night.  We  made  a very  good  meal  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  then  appor- 
tioned the  bedrooms  : Herbert  and  Startop  were  to  occupy  one  ; I and  our  charge 
the  other.  We  found  the  air  as  carefully  excluded  from  both  as  if  air  were  fatal 
to  life  ; and  there  were  more  dirty  clothes  and  bandboxes  under  the  beds,  than  I 
should  have  thought  the  family  possessed.  But,  we  considered  ourselves  well  off, 
notwithstanding,  for  a more  solitary  place  we  could  not  have  found. 

While  we  were  comforting  ourselves  by  the  fire  after  our  meal,  the  Jack — who 
was  sitting  in  a corner,  and  wh^  had  a bloated  pair  of  shoes  on,  which  he  had 
exhibited  while  we  were  eating  our  eggs  and  bacon,  as  interesting  relics  that  he 
%ad  taken  a few  days  ago  from  the  feet  of  a drowned  seaman  washed  ashore— 


A Four-oared  Galley  about . 


479 


asked  me  if  we  had  seen  a four-oared  galley  going  up  with  the  tide  ? When  l 
told  him  No,  he  said  she  must  have  gone  down  then,  and  yet  she  “ took  up  too,0 
when  she  left  there. 

“ They  must  ha’  thought  better  on’t  for  some  reason  or  another,”  said  the  Jack, 
4 ‘and  gone  down.” 

“ A four-oared  galley  did  you  say  ?”  said  I. 

“ A four,”  said  the  Jack,  “ and  two  sitters.” 

“ Did  they  come  ashore  here  ?” 

“ They  put  in  with  a stone  two-gallon  jar,  for  some  beer.  I’d  ha’  been  glad  to 
pison  the  beer  myself,”  said  the  Jack,  “ or  put  some  rattling  physic  in  it.” 

“Why?” 

“/know  why,”  said  the  Jack.  He  spoke  in  a slushy  voice,  as  if  much  mud  had 
washed  into  his  throat. 

“ He  thinks,”  said  the  landlord  : a weakly  meditative  man  with  a pale  eye,  who 
seemed  to  rely  greatly  on  his  Jack : “ he  thinks  they  was,  what  they  wasn’t.” 

“/knows  what  I thinks,”  observed  the  Jack. 

“ You  thinks  Custom  ’Us,  Jack  ?”  said  the  landlord. 

“ I do,”  said  the  Jack. 

“ Then  you’re  wrong,  Jack.” 

“ Am  I ! ” 

In  the  infinite  meaning  of  his  reply  and  his  boundless  confidence  in  his  views, 
the  Jack  took  one  of  his  bloated  shoes  off,  looked  into  it,  knocked  a few  stones 
out  of  it  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  put  it  on  again.  He  did  this  with  the  air  of  a 
Jack  who  was  so  right  that  he  could  afford  to  do  anything. 

“ Why,  what  do  you  make  out  that  they  done  with  their  buttons,  then,  Jack  ?” 
asked  the  landlord,  vacillating  weakly. 

“ Done  with  their  buttons?”  returned  the  Jack.  “ Chucked ’em  overboard. 
Swallered  ’em.  Sowed  ’em,  to  come  up  small  salad.  Done  with  their  buttons  !” 

“ Don’t  be  cheeky,  Jack,”  remonstrated  the  landlord,  in  a melancholy  and 
pathetic  way. 

“A  Custom  ’Us  officer  knows  what  to  do  with  his  Buttons,”  said  the  Jack, 
repeating  the  obnoxious  word  with  the  greatest  contempt,  “ when  they  comes 
betwixt  him  and  his  own  light.  A Four  and  two  sitters  don’t  go  hanging  and 
hovering,  up  with  one  tide  and  down  with  another,  and  both  with  and  against 
another,  without  there  being  Custom  ’Us  at  the  bottom  of  it.”  Saying  which  he 
went  out  in  disdain ; and  the  landlord,  having  no  one  to  rely  upon,  found  it  im- 
practicable to  pursue  the  subject. 

This  dialogue  made  us  all  uneasy,  and  me  very  uneasy.  The  dismal  wind  was 
muttering  round  the  house,  the  tide  was  flapping  at  the  shore,  and  I had  a feeling 
that  we  were  caged  and  threatened.  A four-oared  galley  hovering  about  in  so 
unusual  a way  as  to  attract  this  notice,  was  an  ugly  circumstance  that  I could  not 
get  rid  of.  When  I had  induced  1’iovis  to  go  up  to  bed,  I went  outside  with  my  two 
companions  (Startop  by  this  time  knew  the  state  of  the  case),  and  held  another 
council.  Whether  we  should  remain  at  the  house  until  near  the  steamer’s  time, 
which  would  be  about  one  in  the  afternoon  ; or  whether  we  should  put  off  early 
in  the  morning ; was  the  question  we  discussed.  On  the  whole  we  deemed  it 
the  better  course  to  lie  where  we  were,  until  within  an  hour  or  so  of  the  steamer’s 
time,  and  then  to  get  out  in  her  track,  and  drift  easily  with  the  tide.  Having 
settled  to  do  this,  we  returned  into  the  house  and  went  to  bed. 

I lay  down  with  the  greater  part  of  my  clothes  on,  and  slept  well  for  a few 
hours.  When  I awoke,  the  wind  had  risen,  and  the  sign  of  the  house  (the  Ship) 
was  creaking  and  banging  about,  with  noises  that  startled  me.  Rising  softly,  for 
m ) charge  lay  fast  asleep,  I looked  out  of  the  window.  It  commanded  the  cause* 


48n 


Great  Expectations. 


way  where  we  had  hauled  up  our  boat,  and,  as  my  eyes  adapted,  themselves  to  the 
light  of  the  clouded  moon,  I saw  two  men  looking  into  her.  They  passed  by 
under  the  window,  looking  at  nothing  else,  and  they  did  not  go  down  to  the 
landing-pla  e which  I could  discern  to  be  empty,  but  struck  across  the  marsh  in 
the  direction  of  the  Nore. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  call  up  Herbert,  and  show  him  the  two  men  going  away. 
But,  reflecting  before  I got  into  his  room,  which  was  at  the  back  of  the  house  and 
adjoined  mine,  that  he  and  Startop  had  had  a harder  day  than  I,  and  were 
fatigued,  I forbore.  Going  back  to  my  window  I could  see  the  two  men  moving 
over  the  marsh.  In  that  light,  however,  I soon  lost  them,  and  feeling  very  cold, 
lay  down  to  think  of  the  matter,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

We  were  up  early.  As  we  walked  to  and  fro,  all  four  together,  before  break- 
fast, I deemed  it  right  to  recount  what  I had  seen.  Again  our  charge  was  the 
least  anxious  of  the  party.  It  was  very  likely  that  the  men  belonged  to  the  Custom 
House,  he  said  quietly,  and  that  they  had  no  thought  of  us.  I tried  to  persuade 
myself  that  it  was  so — as,  indeed,  it  might  easily  be.  However,  I proposed  that 
he  and  I should  walk  away  together  to  a distant  point  we  could  see,  and  that  the 
boat  should  take  us  aboard  there,  or  as  near  there  as  might  prove  feasible,  at  about 
noon.  This  being  considered  a good  precaution,  soon  after  breakfast  he  and  I set 
forth,  without  saying  anything  at  the* tavern. 

He  smoked  his  pipe  as  we  went  along,  and  sometimes  stopped  to  clap  me  on 
the  shoulder.  One  would  have  supposed  that  it  was  I who  was  in  danger,  not  he, 
and  that  he  was  reassuring  me.  We  spoke  very  little.  As  we  approached  the 
point,  I begged  him  to  remain  in  a sheltered  place,  while  I went  on  to  recon- 
noitre ; for  it  was  towards  it  that  the  men  had  passed  in  the  night.  He  complied, 
and  I went  on  alone.  There  was  no  boat  off  the  point,  nor  any  boat  drawn  up 
anywhere  near  it,  nor  were  there  any  signs  of  the  men  having  embarked  there. 
But,  to  be  sure  the  tide  was  high,  and  there  might  have  been  some  footprints 
under  water. 

When  he  looked  out  from  his  shelter  in  the  distance,  and  saw  that  I waved  my 
hat  to  him  to  come  up,  he  rejoined  me,  and  there  we  waited  ; sometimes  lying  on 
the  bank  wrapped  in  our  coats,  and  sometimes  moving  about  to  warm  ourselves : 
until  we  saw  our  boat  coming  round.  We  got  aboard  easily,  and  rowed  out  into 
the  track  of  the  steamer.  By  that  time  it  wanted  but  ten  minutes  of  one  o’clock, 
and  we  began  to  look  out  for  her  smoke. 

But,  it  was  half-past  one  before  we  saw  her  smoke,  and  soon  after  we  saw 
behind  it  the  smoke  of  another  steamer.  As  they  were  coming  on  at  full  speed, 
we  got  the  two  bags  ready,  and  took  that  opportunity  of  saying  good-bye  to 
Herbert  and  Startop.  We  had  all  shaken  hands  cordially,  and  neither  Herbert’s 
eyes  nor  mine  were  quite  dry,  when  I saw  a four-oared  galley  shoot  out  from 
under  the  bank  but  a little  way  ahead  of  us,  and  row  out  into  the  same  track. 

A stretch  of  shore  had  been  as  yet  between  us  and  the  steamer’s  smoke,  by 
i iason  of  the  bend  and  wind  of  the  river ; but  now  she  was  visible  coming  head 
on.  I called  to  Herbert  and  Startop  to  keep  before  the  tide,  that  she  might  see 
us  lying  by  for  her,  and  adjured  Provis  to  sit  quite  still,  wrapped  in  his  cloak.  He 
answered  cheerily,  “Trust  to  me,  dear  boy,”  and  sat  like  a statue.  Meantime  the 
galley,  which  was  skilfully  handled,  had  crossed  us,  let  us  come  up  with  her,  and 
fallen  alongside.  Leaving  just  room  enough  for  the  play  of  the  oars,  she  kept 
alongside,  drifting  when  we  drifted,  and  pulling  a stroke  or  two  when  we  pulled. 
Of  the  two  sitters,  one  held  the  rudder  lines,  and  looked  at  us  attentively — as  did 
all-  the  rowers  ; the  other  sitter  was  wrapped  up,  much  as  Provis  was,  and 
seemed  to  shrink,  and  whisper  some  instruction  to  the  steerer  as  he  looked  at  us. 
Not  a word  was  spoken  in  either  boat 


The  Galley  boards  us. 


48. 


Startop  could  make  out,  after  a few  minutes,  which  steamer  was  first,  and  gave 
me  the  word  “Hamburg,”  in  a low  voice  as  we  sat  face  to  face.  She  was  nearing 
us  veiy  fast,  and  the  beating  of  her  paddles  grew  louder  and  louder.  I felt  as  il 
her  shadow  were  absolutely  upon  us,  when  the  galley  hailed  us.  I answered. 

“You  have  a returned  transport  there,”  said  the  man  who  held  the  lines. 
“That’s  the  man,  wrapped  in  the  cloak.  His  name  is  Abel  Magwitch,  other- 
wise Provis.  I apprehend  that  man,  and  call  upon  him  to  surrender,  and  you  to 
assist.” 

At  the  same  moment,  without  giving  any  audible  direction  to  his  crew,  he  ran 
the  galley  aboard  of  us.  They  had  pulled  one  sudden  stroke  ahead,  had  got 
their  oars  in,  had  run  athwart  us,  and  were  holding  on  to  our  gunwale,  before  we 
knew  what  they  were  doing.  This  caused  great  confusion  on  board  of  the  steamer, 
and  I heard  them  calling  to  us,  and  heard  the  order  given  to  stop  the  paddles,  and 
heard  them  stop,  but  felt  her  driving  down  upon  us  irresistibly.  In  the  same  moment, 
I saw  the  steersman  of  the  galley  lay  his  hand  on  his  prisoner’s  shoulder,  and  saw 
that  both  boats  were  swinging  round  with  the  force  of  the  tide,  and  saw  that  all 
hands  on  board  the  steamer  were  running  forward  quite  frantically.  Still  in  the 
same  moment,  I saw  the  prisoner  start  up,  lean  across  his  captor,  and  pull  the 
cloak  from  the  neck  of  the  shrinking  sitter  in  the  galley.  Still  in  the  same 
moment,  I saw  that  the  face  disclosed,  was  the  face  of  the  other  convict  of  long 
ago.  Still  in  the  same  moment,  I saw  the  face  tilt  backward  with  a white  terror 
on  it  that  I shall  never  forget,  and  heard  a great  cry  on  board  the  steamer  and  a 
loud  splash  in  the  water,  and  felt  the  boat  sink  from  under  me. 

It  was  but  for  an  instant  that  I seemed  to  struggle  with  a thousand  mill-weirs 
and  a thousand  flashes  of  light ; that  instant  past,  I was  taken  on  board  the  galley. 
Herbert  was  there,  and  Startop  was  there  ; but  our  boat  was  gone,  and  the  two 
convicts  were  gone. 

What  with  the  cries  aboard  the  steamer,  and  the  furious  blowing  off  of  her 
steam,  and  her  driving  on,  and  our  driving  on,  I could  not  at  first  distinguish  sky 
from  water  or  shore  from  shore  ; but  the  crew  of  the  galley  righted  her  with  great 
speed,  and,  pulling  certain  swift  strong  strokes  ahead,  lay  upon  their  oars,  every 
man  looking  silently  and  eagerly  at  the  water  astern.  Presently  a dark  object  was 
seen  in  it,  bearing  towards  us  on  the  tide.  No  man  spoke,  but  the  steersman 
held  up  his  hand,  and  all  softly  backed  water,  and  kept  the  boat  straight  and 
true  before  it.  As  it  came  nearer,  I saw  it  to  be  Magwitch,  swimming,  but  not 
swimming  freely.  He  was  taken  on  board,  and  instantly  manacled  at  the  wrists 
and  ankles. 

The  galley  was  kept  steady,  and  the  silent  eager  look-out  at  the  water  was 
resumed.  But  the  Rotterdam  steamer  now  came  up,  and  apparently  not  under- 
standing what  had  happened,  came  on  at  speed.  By  the  time  she  had  been 
hailed  and  stopped,  both  steamers  were  drifting  away  from  us,  and  we  were 
rising  and  falling  in  a troubled  wake  of  water.  The  look-out  was  kept,  long  after 
all  was  still  again  and  the  two  steamers  were  gone ; but  everybody  knew  that  it 
was  hopeless  now. 

At  length  we  gave  it  up,  and  pulled  under  the  shore  towards  the  tavern  we  had 
lately  left,  where  we  were  received  with  no  little  surprise.  Here,  I was  able  to 
get  some  comforts  for  Magwitch — Provis  no  longer — who  had  received  some  very 
severe  injury  in  the  chest  and  a deep  cut  in  the  head. 

He  told  me  that  he  believed  himself  to  have  gone  under  the  keel  of  the  steamer, 
and  to  have  been  struck  on  the  head  in  rising.  The  injury  to  his  chest  (which 
tendered  his  breathing  extremely  painful)  he  thought  he  had  received  against  the 
side  of  the  galley.  He  added  that  he  did  not  pretend  to  say  what  he  might  or 
migL.  not  have  done  to  Compeyson,  but,  that  in  the  moment  of  his  laying  his 


4&2 


Great  Expectations . 


hand  on  his  cloak  to  identify  him,  that  villain  had  staggered  up  and  staggered 
back,  and  they  had  both  gone  overboard  together ; when  the  sudden  wrenching 
of  him  (Magwitch)  out  of  our  boat,  and  the  endeavour  of  his  captor  to  keep  him  in 
it,  had  capsized  us.  He  told  me  in  a whisper  that  they  had  gone  down,  fiercely 
locked  in  each  other’s  arms,  and  that  there  had  been  a struggle  under  water,  and 
that  he  had  disengaged  himself,  struck  out,  and  swam  away. 

I never  had  any  reason  to  doubt  the  exact  truth  of  what  he  had  told  me.  The 
officer  who  steered  the  galley  gave  the  same  account  of  their  going  overboard. 

When  I asked  this  officer’s  permission  to  change  the  prisoner’s  wet  clothes  by 
purchasing  any  spare  garments  I could  get  at  the  public-house,  he  gave  it  readily: 
merely  observing  that  he  must  take  charge  of  everything  his  prisoner  had  about 
him.  So  the  pocket-book  which  had  once  been  in  my  hands,  passed  into  the 
officer’s.  He  further  gave  me  leave  to  accompany  the  prisoner  to  London  ; but, 
declined  to  accord  that  grace  to  my  two  friends. 

The  Jack  at  the  Ship  was  instructed  where  the  drowned  man  had  gone  down, 
and  undertook  to  search  for  the  body  in  the  places  where  it  was  likeliest  to  come 
ashore.  His  interest  in  its  recovery  seemed  to  me  to  be  much  heightened  when 
he  heard  that  it  had  stockings  on.  Probably,  it  took  about  a dozen  drowned  men 
to  fit  him  out  completely  ; and  that  may  have  been  the  reason  why  the  different 
articles  of  his  dress  were  in  various  stages  of  decay. 

We  remained  at  the  public-house  until  the  tide  turned,  and  then  Magwitch  was 
carried  down  to  the  galley  and  put  on  board.  Herbert  and  Startop  were  to  get 
to  London  by  land,  as  soon  as  they  could.  We  had  a doleful  parting,  and  when 
I took  my  place  by  Magwitch’s  side,  I felt  that  that  was  my  place  henceforth  while 
he  lived. 

For  now  my  repugnance  to  him  had  all  melted  away,  and  in  the  hunted  wounded 
shackled  creature  who  held  my  hand  in  his,  I only  saw  a man  who  had  meant  to 
be  my  benefactor,  and  who  had  felt  affectionately,  gratefully,  and  generously, 
towards  me  with  great  constancy  through  a series  of  years.  I only  saw  in  him  a 
much  better  man  than  I had  been  to  Joe. 

His  breathing  became  more  difficult  and  painful  as  the  night  drew  on,  and  often 
he  could  not  repress  a groan.  I tried  to  rest  him  on  the  arm  I could  use,  in  any 
easy  position  ; but  it  was  dreadful  to  think  that  I could  not  be  sorry  at  heart  for 
his  being  badly  hurt,  since  it  was  unquestionably  best  that  he  should  die.  That 
there  were,  still  living,  people  enough  who  were  able  and  willing  to  identify  him, 
I could  not  doubt.  That  he  wmuld  be  leniently  treated,  I could  not  hope.  He 
who  had  been  presented  in  the  worst  light  at  his  trial,  who  had  since  broken 
prison  and  been  tried  again,  who  had  returned  from  transportation  under  a life 
sentence,  and  who  had  occasioned  the  death  of  the  man  who  was  the  cause  of 
his  arrest. 

As  we  returned  towards  the  setting  sun  we  had  yesterday  left  behind  us,  and  as 
the  stream  of  our  hopes  seemed  all  running  back,  I told  him  how  grieved  I was  ta 
think  he  had  come  home  for  my  sake. 

“ Dear  boy,”  he  answered,  “I’m  quite  content  to  take  my  chance.  I’ve  seen 
my  boy,  and  he  can  be  a gentleman  without  me.” 

No.  I had  thought  about  that  while  we  had  been  there  side  by  side.  No. 
Apart  from  any  inclinations  of  my  own,  I understand  Wemmick’s  hint  now. 
I foresaw  that,  being  convicted,  his  possessions  would  be  forfeited  to  tin 
Grown. 

“ Lookee  here,  dear  boy,”  said  he.  “ It’s  best  as  a gentleman  should  not  be 
knowed  to  belong  to  me  now.  Only  come  to  see  me  as  if  you  come  by  chance 
alonger  Wcmmiek.  Sit  where  I can  see  you  when  I am  swore  to,  for  the  last  o 
naany  times,  and  I don*  ask  no  more?” 


1 accompany  the  Prisoner . 483 

**  I will  never  stir  from  your  side,”  said  I,  “ when  I am  suffered  to  be  near  you. 
Please  God,  I wil1  be  as  true  to  you  as  you  have  been  tome!” 

I felt  his  hand  tremble  as  it  held  mine,  and  he  turned  his  face  away  as  he  lay 
• in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  I heard  that  old  sound  in  his  throat — softened  now, 
like  all  the  rest  of  him.  It  was  a good  thing  that  he  had  touched  this  point,  for 
it  put  into  my  mind  what  I might  not  otherwise  have  thought  of  until  too  late  : that 
he  need  never  know  how  his  hopes  of  enriching  me  had  perished. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

He  was  taken  to  the  Police  Court  next  day,  and  would  have  been  immediately 
committed  for  trial,  but  that  it  was  necessary  to  send  down  for  an  old  officer  of  the 
prison-ship  from  which  he  had  once  escaped,  to  speak  to  his  identity.  Nobody 
doubted  it ; but,  Compeyson,  who  had  meant  to  depose  to  it,  was  tumbling  on 
the  tides,  dead,  and  it  happened  that  there  was  not  at  that  time  any  prison  officer 
in  London  who  could  give  the  required  evidence.  I had  gone  direct  to  Mr. 
Jaggers  at  his  private  house,  on  my  arrival  over  night,  to  retain  his  assistance,  and 
Mr.  Jaggers  on  the  prisoner’s  behalf  would  admit  nothing.  It  was  the  sole 
resource,  for  he  told  me  that  the  case  must  be  over  in  five  minutes  when  the 
witness  was  there,  and  that  no  power  on  earth  could  prevent  its  going  against  us. 

I imparted  to  Mr.  Jaggers  my  design  of  keeping  him  in  ignorance  of  the  fate  of 
his  wealth.  Mr.  Jaggers  was  querulous  and  angry  with  me  for  having  “ let  it  slip 
through  my  fingers,”  and  said  we  must  memorialise  by-and-by,  and  try  at  all 
events  for  some  of  it.  But  he  did  not  conceal  from  me  that  although  there  might 
be  many  cases  in  which  forfeiture  would  not  be  exacted,  there  were  no  circum- 
stances in  this  case  to  make  it  one  of  them.  I understood  that  very  well.  I was 
not  related  to  the  outlaw,  or  connected  with  him  by  any  recognisable  tie  ; he  had 
put  his  hand  to  no  writing  or  settlement  in  my  favour  before  his  apprehension,  and 
to  do  so  now  would  be  idle.  I had  no  claim,  and  I finally  resolved,  and  ever 
afterwards  abided  by  the  resolution,  that  my  heart  should  never  be  sickened  with 
the  hopeless  task  of  attempting  to  establish  one. 

There  appeared  to  be  reason  for  supposing  that  the  drowned  informer  had 
hoped  for  a reward  out  of  this  forfeiture,  and  had  obtained  some  accurate  know- 
ledge of  Magwitch’s  affairs.  When  his  body  was  found,  many  miles  from  the 
scene  of  his  death,  and  so  horribly  disfigured  that  he  was  only  recognisable  by  the 
contents  of  his  pockets,  notes  were  still  legible,  folded  in  a case  he  carried. 
Among  these  were  the  name  of  a banking-house  in  New  South  Wales  where  a 
sum  of  money  was,  and  the  designation  of  certain  lands  of  considerable  value. 
Both  those  heads  of  information  were  in  a list  that  Magwitch,  while  in  prison, 
gave  to.  Mr.  Jaggers,  of  the  possessions  he  supposed  I should  inherit.  His  igno- 
rance, poor  fellow,  at  last  served  him ; he  never  mistrusted  but  that  my  inheri- 
tance was  quite  safe,  with  Mr.  Jaggers’s  aid. 

After  three  days’  delay,  during  which  the  crown  prosecution  stood  over  for  the 
production  of  the  witness  from  the  prison-ship,  the  witness  came,  and  completed 
the  easy  case.  He  was  committed  to  take  his  trial  at  the  next  Session,  which 
would  come  on  in  a month. 

It  was  at  this  dark  time  of  my  life  that  Herbert  returned  home  one  evening.,  t 
good  deal  cast  down,  and  said  : 

“ My  dear  Handel,  I fear  I shall  soon  have  to  leave  you.” 

His  partnei  having  prepared  me  for  that,  I was  less  surprised  thin  he  tho  lght 


4S4 


Great  Expectations. 


MWe  shall  lose  a fine  opportunity  if  I put  off  going  to  Cairo,  and  I am  very 
much  afraid  I must  go,  Handel,  when  you  most  need  me.” 

44  Herbert,  I shall  always  need  you,  because  I shall  always  love  you  : but  mj 
need  is  no  greater  now,  than  at  another  time.” 

4 4 You  will  be  so  lonely.” 

44 1 have  not  leisure  to  think  of  that,”  said  I.  44  You  know  that  I am  always 
with  him  to  the  full  extent  of  the  time  allowed,  and  that  I should  be  with  him  all 
day  long,  if  I could.  And  when  I come  away  from  him,  you  know  that  my 
thoughts  are  with  him.” 

The  dreadful  condition  to  which  he  was  brought,  was  so  appalling  to  both  of 
us,  that  we  could  not  refer  to  it  in  plainer  words. 

44  My  dear  fellow,”  said  Herbert,  44  let  the  near  prospect  of  our  separation — 
for,  it  is  very  near — be  my  justification  for  troubling  you  about  yourself.  Have 
you  thought  of  your  future  ?’* 

44  No,  for  I have  been  afraid  to  think  of  any  future.” 

44  But  yours  cannot  be  dismissed ; indeed,  my  dear,  dear  Handel,  it  must  not 
be  dismissed.  I wish  you  would  enter  on  it  now,  as  far  as  a few  friendly  words 
go,  with  me.” 

44 1 will,”  said  I. 

44  In  this  branch  house  of  ours,  Handel,  we  must  have  a ” 

I saw  that  his  delicacy  was  avoiding  the  right  word,  so  I said,  44  A clerk.” 

44  A clerk.  And  I hope  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that  he  may  expand  (as  a clerk 

of  your  acquaintance  has  expanded)  into  a partner.  Now,  Handel in  short, 

my  dear  boy,  will  you  come  to  me?” 

There  was  something  charmingly  cordial  and  engaging  in  the  manner  in  which 
after  saying,  44  Now,  Handel,”  as  if  it  were  the  grave  beginning  of  a portentous 
business  exordium,  he  had  suddenly  given  up  that  tone,  stretched  out  his  honest 
hand,  and  spoken  like  a schoolboy. 

44  Clara  and  I have  talked  about  it  again  and  again,”  Herbert  pursued,  44  and 
the  dear  little  thing  begged  me  only  this  evening,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  say 
to  you  that  if  you  will  live  with  us  when  we  come  together,  she  will  do  her  best 
to  make  you  happy,  and  to  convince  her  husband’s  friend  that  he  is  her  friend  too. 
We  should  get  on  so  well,  Handel !” 

I thanked  her  heartily,  and  I thanked  him  heartily,  but  said  I could  not  yet 
make  sure  of  joining  him  as  he  so  kindly  offered.  Firstly,  my  mind  was  too  pre- 
occupied to  be  able  to  take  in  the  subject  clearly.  Secondly Yes  ! Secondly, 

there  was  a vague  something  lingering  in  my  thoughts  that  will  come  out  very 
neai  the  end  of  this  slight  narrative. 

44  But  if  you  thought,  Herbert,  that  you  could,  without  doing  any  injury  to  your 

business,  leave  the  question  open  for  a little  while ” 

44  For  any  while,”  cried  Herbert.  44  Six  months,  a year  ! ” 

44  Not  so  long  as  that,”  said  I.  44  Two  or  three  months  at  most.” 

Herbert  was  highly  delighted  when  we  shook  hands  on  this  arrangement,  and 
said  he  could  now  take  courage  to  tell  me  that  he  believed  ho  must  go  away  at 
the  end  of  the  week. 

44  And  Clara  ? ” said  I. 

44  The  dear  little  thing,”  returned  Herbert,  44  holds  dutifully  tc  her  father  as 
long  as  he  lasts  ; but  he  won’t  last  long.  Mrs.  Whimple  confides  tj  me  that  he 
is  certainly  going.” 

44  Not  to  say  an  unfeeling  thing,”  said  I,  44  he  cannot  do  better  than  go.” 

44 1 am  afraid  that  must  be  admitted,”  said  Herbert : 44  and  then  I shall  come 
bac  k for  the  dear  little  thing,  and  the  dear  little  thing  and  I will  walk  quietly  into 
the  nearest  church.  Remember!  The  blessed  darling  coir,  es  of  no  family,  my 


Herbert  leaves  me  for  the  last . 485 

dear  Handel,  and  never  looked  into  the  red  book,  and  hasn’t  a notion  about  he? 
grandpapa.  What  a fortune  for  the  son  of  my  mother ! ” 

On  the  Saturday  in  that  same  week,  I took  my  leave  of  Herbert — full  of  bright 
hope,  but  sad  and  sorry  to  leave  me — as  he  sat  on  one  of  the  seaport  mail  coaches. 
I went  into  a coffee  -house  to  write  a little  note  to  Clara,  telling  her  he  had  gone 
off,  sending  his  love  to  her  over  and  over  again,  and  then  went  to  my  lonely  home 
— if  it  deserved  the  name,  for  it  was  now  no  home  to  me,  and  I had  no  home 
anywhere. 

On  the  stairs  I encountered  Wemmick,  who  was  coming  down,  after  an  unsuc- 
cessful application  of  his  knuckles  to  my  door.  I had  not  seen  him  alone,  since  the 
disastrous  issue  of  the  attempted  flight ; and  he  had  come,  in  his  private  and 
personal  capacity,  to  say  a few  words  of  explanation  in  reference  to  that  failure. 

“The  late  Compeyson,’’ said  Wemmick,  “ had  by  little  and  little  got  at  the 
bottom  of  half  of  the  regular  business  now  transacted,  and  it  was  from  the  talk  of 
some  of  his  people  in  trouble  (some  of  his  people  being  always  in  trouble)  that  I 
heard  what  I did.  I kept  my  ears  open,  seeming  to  have  them  shut,  until  I 
heard  that  he  was  absent,  and  I thought  that  would  be  the  best  time  for  making 
the  attempt.  I can  only  suppose  now,  that  it  was  a part  of  his  policy,  as  a very 
clever  man,  habitually  to  deceive  his  own  instruments.  You  don’t  blame  me,  I 
hope,  Mr.  Pip  ? I’m  sure  I tried  to  serve  you,  with  all  my  heart.” 

“ I am  as  sure  of  that,  Wemmick,  as  you  can  be,  and  I thank  you  most  earnestly 
for  all  your  interest  and  friendship.” 

“ Thank  you,  thank  you  very  much.  It’s  a bad  job,”  said  Wemmick,  scratch- 
ing tm  head,  “ and  I assure  you  I haven’t  been  so  cut  up  for  a long  time.  What 
I look  at  is,  the  sacrifice  of  so  much  portable  property.  Dear  me ! ” 

“ What  / think  of,  Wemmick,  is  the  poor  owner  of  the  property.” 

“ Yes,  to  be  sure,”  said  Wemmick.  “ Of  course  there  can  be  no  objection  to 
your  being  sorry  for  him,  and  I’d  put  down  a five-pound  note  myself  to  get  him 
out  of  it.  But  what  I look  at,  is  this.  The  late  Compeyson  having  been  before- 
hand with  him  in  intelligence  of  his  return,  and  being  so  determined  to  bring  him 
to  book,  I do  not  think  he  could  have  been  saved.  Whereas,  the  portable  pro- 
perty certainly  could  have  been  saved.  That’s  the  difference  between  the  property 
and  the  owner,  don’t  you  see  ?” 

I invited  Wemmick  to  come  up-stairs,  and  refresh  himself  with  a glass  of  grog 
before  walking  to  Walworth.  He  accepted  the  invitation.  While  he  was  drinking 
his  moderate  allowance,  he  said,  with  nothing  to  lead  up  to  it,  and  after  having 
appeared  rather  fidgety : 

“ What  do  you  think  of  my  meaning  to  take  a holiday  on  Monday,  Mr.  Pip  ?” 
“ Why,  I suppose  you  have  not  done  such  a thing  these  twelve  months.” 
“These  twelve  years,  more  likely,”  said  Wemmick.  “Yes.  I’m  going  to 
take  a holiday.  More  than  that ; I’m  going  to  take  a walk.  More  than  that ; 
I’m  going  to  ask  you  to  take  a walk  with  me.” 

I was  about  to  excuse  myself,  as  being  but  a bad  companion  just  then,  when 
Wemmick  anticipated  me. 

“ I know  your  engagements,”  said  he,  “ and  I know  you  are  out  of  sorts,  Mr. 
Pip.  But  if  you  could  oblige  me,  I should  take  it  as  a kindness.  It  ain’t  a long 
walk,  and  it’s  an  early  one.  Say  it  might  occupy  you  (including  breakfast  on  the 
walk)  from  eight  to  twelve.  Couldn’t  you  stretch  a point  and  manage  it  ?” 

He  had  done  so  much  for  me  at  various  times,  that  this  was  very  little  to  do  for 
him.  I said  I could  manage  it — would  manage  it — and  he  was  so  very  much 
pleased  by  my  acquiescence,  that  I was  pleased  too.  At  his  particular  request, 
I appointed  to  call  for  him  at  the  Castle  at  balf-past  eight  on  Monday  morning, 
and  so  we  parted  for  the  time. 


486 


Great  Expectations. 


Punctual  to  my  appointment,  I rang  at  the  Castle  gate  on  the  Monday  morning, 
hnd  was  received  by  Wemmick  himself:  who  struck  me  as  looking  tighter  than 
usual,  and  having  a sleeker  hat  on.  Within,  there  were  two  glasses  of  rum-and- 
tnilk  prepared,  and  two  biscuits.  The  Aged  must  have  been  stirring  with  the 
lark,  for,  glancing  into  the  perspective  of  his  bedroom,  I observed  that  his  bed 
was  empty. 

When  we  had  fortified  ourselves  with  the  rum-and-milk  and  biscuits,  and  were 
going  out  for  the  walk  with  that  training  preparation  on  us,  I was  considerably 
surprised  to  see  Wemmick  take  up  a fishing-rod,  and  put  it  over  his  shoulder. 
“Why,  we  are  not  going  fishing !”  said  I.  “No,”  returned  Wemmick,  “but  I 
like  to  walk  with  one.” 

I thought  this  odd ; however,  I said  nothing,  and  we  set  off.  We  went  towards 
Camberwell  Green,  and  when  we  were  thereabouts,  Wemmick  said  suddenly: 

“ Halloa ! Here’s  a church  ! ” 

There  was  nothing  very  surprising  in  that ; but  again,  I was  rather  surprised, 
when  he  said,  as  if  he  were  animated  by  a brilliant  idea : 

“Let’s  go  in !” 

We  went  in,  Wemmick  leaving  his  fishing-rod  in  the  porch,  and  looked  all 
round.  In  the  mean  time,  Wemmick  was  diving  into  his  coat-pockets,  and  getting 
something  out  of  paper  there. 

“ Halloa  ! ” said  he.  “ Here’s  a couple  of  pair, of  gloves ! Let’s  put  ’em  on  ! ” 

As  the  gloves  were  white  kid  gloves,  and  as  the  post-office  was  widened  to  its 
utmost  extent,  I now  began  to  have  my  strong  suspicions.  They  were  strengthened 
into  certainty  when  I beheld  the  Aged  enter  at  a side  door,  escorting  a lady. 

“ Halloa ! ” said  Wemmick.  “Here’s  Miss  Skiffins  ! Let’s  have  a wedding.” 

That  discreet  damsel  was  attired  as  usual,  except  that  she  was  now  engaged  in 
substituting  for  her  green  kid  gloves,  a pair  of  white.  The  Aged  was  likewise 
occupied  in  preparing  a similar  sacrifice  for  the  altar  of  Hymen.  The  old  gentleman, 
however,  experienced  so  much  difficulty  in  getting  his  gloves  on,  that  Wemmick 
found  it  necessary  to  put  him  with  his  back  against  a pillar,  and  then  to  get  behind 
the  pillar  himself  and  pull  away  at  them,  while  I for  my  part  held  the  old  gentle- 
man round  the  waist,  that  he  might  present  an  equal  and  safe  resistance.  By  dint 
of  this  ingenious  scheme,  his  gloves  were  got  on  to  perfection. 

The  clerk  and  clergyman  then  appearing,  we  were  ranged  in  order  at  those  fatal 
rails.  True  to  his  notion  of  seeming  to  do  it  all  without  preparation,  I heard 
Wemmick  say  to  himself  as  he  took  something  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket  before 
the  service  began,  “ Halloa  ! Here’s  a ring ! ” 

I acted  in  the  capacity  of  backer,  or  best-man,  to  the  bridegroom  ; while  a little 
limp  pew-opener  in  a soft  bonnet  like  a baby’s,  made  a feint  of  being  the  bosom 
friend  of  Miss  Skiffins.  The  responsibility  of  giving  the  lady  away,  devolved  upon 
the  Aged,  which  led  to  the  clergyman’s  being  unintentionally  scandalised,  and  it 
happened  thus.  When  he  said,  “Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man?”  the  old  gentlemen,  not  in  the  least  knowing  what  point  of  the  ceremony 
we  had  arrived  at,  stood  most  amiably  beaming  at  the  ten  commandments.  Upon 
which,  the  clergyman  said  again,  “ Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man  ? ” The  old  gentleman  being  still  in  a state  of  most  estimable  unconsciousness, 
the  bridegroom  cried  out  in  his  accustomed  voice,  “ Now  Aged  P.  you  know ; who 
giveth  ?”  To  which  the  Aged  replied  with  great  briskness,  before  saying  that  he 
gave,  “All  right  John,  all  right,  my  boy!”  And  the  clergyman  came  to  so 
gloomy  a pause  upon  it,  that  I had  doubts  for  the  moment  whether  we  should  get 
completely  married  that  day. 

It  was  completely  done,  however,  and  when  we  were  going  out  of  church, 
Wemmick  took  the  cover  off  the  font,  and  put  his  white  gloves  in  it,  and  put  the 


Wemmick  jnarried . 


4*3 


cove?  on  again.  Mrs.  Wemmick,  more  heedful  of  the  future,  put  her  white  gloves 
in  hei  pocket  and  assumed  her  green.  “ Now,  Mr.  Pip,”  said  Wemmick,  triumph- 
antly shouldering  the  fishing-rod  as  we  came  out,  ‘‘let  me  ask  you  whether  any- 
body would  suppose  this  to  be  a wedding-party ! ” 

Breakfast  had  been  ordered  at  a pleasant  little  tavern,  a mile  or  so  away  upon 
the  rising  ground  beyond  the  green  ; and  there  was  a bagatelle  board  in  the  room, 
in  case  we  should  desire  to  unbend  our  minds  after  the  solemnity.  It  was  pleasant 
to  observe  that  Mrs.  Wemmick  no  longer  unwound  Wemmick’s  arm  when  it 
adapted  itself  to  her  figure,  but  sat  in  a high-backed  chair  against  the  wall,  like 
a violoncello  in  its  case,  and  submitted  to  be  embraced  as  that  melodious  instru- 
ment might  have  done. 

We  had  an  excellent  breakfast,  and  when  any  one  declined  anything  on.  table, 
Wemmick  said,  “Provided  by  contract,  you  know;  don’t  be  afraid  of  it!”  I 
drank  to  the  new  couple,  drank  to  the  Aged,  drank  to  the  Castle,  saluted  the  bride 
at  parting,  and  made  myself  as  agreeable  as  I could. 

Wemmick  came  down  to  'he  door  with  me,  and  I again  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  wished  him  joy. 

“Thankee!  ” said  Wemmick,  rubbing  his  hands.  “She’s  such  a manager  of 
fowls,  you  have  no  idea.  You  shall  have  some  eggs  and  judge  for  yourself.  I say, 
Mr.  Pip  !”  calling  me  back  and  speaking  low.  “ This  is  altogether  a Walworth 
sentiment,  please.” 

“ I understand.  Not  to  be  mentioned  in  Little  Britain,”  said  I. 

Wemmick  nodded.  “After  what  you  let  out  the  other  day,  Mr.  Jaggers  may 
as  well  not  know  of  it.  He  might  think  my  brain  was  softening,  or  something  of 
the  kind.” 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

He  lay  in  prison  very  ill,  during  the  whole  interval  between  his  committal  for 
trial,  and  the  coming  round  of  the  Sessions.  He  had  broken  two  ribs,  they  had 
wounded  one  of  his  lungs,  and  he  breathed  with  great  pain  and  difficulty,  which 
increased  daily.  It  was  a consequence  of  his  hurt  that  he  spoke  so  low  as  to  be 
scarcely  audible  ; therefore,  he  spoke  very  little.  But,  he  was  ever  ready  to  listen 
to  me,  and  it  became  the  first  duty  of  my  life  to  say  to  him,  and  read  to  him,  what 
I knew  he  ought  to  hear. 

Being  far  too  ill  to  remain  in  the  common  prison,  he  was  removed,  after  the 
first  day  or  so,  into  the  infirmary.  This  gave  me  opportunities  of  being  with  him 
that  I could  not  otherwise  have  had.  And  but  for  his  illness  he  would  have  been 
put  in  irons,  for  he  was  regarded  as  a determined  prison-breaker,  and  I know  not 
what  else. 

Although  I saw  him  every  day,  it  was  for  only  a short  time ; hence  the  regularly 
recurring  spaces  of  our  separation  were  long  enough  to  record  on  his  face  any 
slight  changes  that  occurred  in  his  physical  state.  I do  not  recollect  that  I once 
saw  any  change  in  it  for  the  better ; he  wasted,  and  became  slowly  weaker  and 
worse,  day  by  day  from  the  day  when  the  prison  door  closed  upon  him. 

The  kind  of  submission  or  resignation  that  he  showed,  was  that  of  a man  who 
was  tired  out.  I sometimes  derived  an  impression,  from  his  manner  or  from  a 
whispered  word  or  two  which  escaped  him,  that  he  pondered  over  the  question 
whether  he  might  have  been  a better  man  under  better  circumstances.  But,  he 
never  justified  him  sell  by  a hint  tending  that  way,  or  tried  to  bend  the  past  out 
of  its  eternal  shape. 


488 


Great  Expectations. 


It  happened  on  two  or  three  occasions  in  my  presence,  that  his  desperate  repu- 
tation was  alluded  to  by  one  or  other  of  the  people  in  attendance  on  him.  A smile 
crossed  his  face  then,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  on  me  with  a trustful  look,  as  if  he 
were  confident  that  I had  seen  some  small  redeeming  touch  in  him,  even  so  long 
ago  as  when  I was  a little  child.  As  to  all  the  rest,  he  was  humble  and  contrite, 
and  I never  knew  him  complain. 

When  the  Sessions  came  round,  Mr.  Jaggers  caused  an  application  to  be  made 
for  the  postponement  of  his  trial  until  the  following  Sessions.  It  was  obviously 
made  with  the  assurance  that  he  could  not  live  so  long,  and  was  refused.  The 
trial  came  on  at  on$e,  and  when  he  was  put  to  the  bar,  he  was  seated  in  a chair. 
No  objection  was  made  to  my  getting  close  to  the  dock,  on  the  outside  of  it,  and 
holding  the  hand  that  he  stretched  forth  to  me. 

The  trial  was  very  short  and  very  clear.  Such  things  as  could  be  said  for  him, 
were  said — how  he  had  taken  to  industrious  habits,  and  had  thriven  lawfully  and 
reputably.  But,  nothing  could  unsay  the  fact  that  he  had  returned,  and  was  there 
in  presence  of  the  Judge  and  Jury.  It  was  impossible  to  try  him  for  that,  and  do 
Otherwise  than  find  him  guilty. 

At  that  time  it  was  the  custom  (s«  I learnt  from  my  terrible  experience  of  that 
Sessions)  to  devote  a concluding  day  to  the  passing  of  Sentences,  and  to  make 
a finishing  effect  with  the  Sentence  of  Death.  But  for  the  indelible  picture  that 
my  remembrance  now  holds  before  me,  I could  scarcely  believe,  even  as  I write 
these  words,  that  I saw  two-and-thirty  men  and  women  put  before  the  Judge  to 
receive  that  sentence  together.  Foremost  among  the  two-and-thirty  was  he ; 
seated,  that  he  might  get  breath  enough  to  keep  life  in  him. 

The  whole  scene  starts  out  again  in  the  vivid  colours  of  the  moment,  down  to 
the  drops  of  April  rain  on  the  windows  of  the  court,  glittering  in  the  rays  of  April 
sun.  Penned  in  the  dock,  as  I again  stood  outside  it  at  the  corner  with  his  hand 
in  mine,  were  the  two-and-thirty  men  and  women ; some  defiant,  some  stricken 
with  terror,  some  sobbing  and  weeping,  some  covering  their  faces,  some  staring 
gloomily  about.  There  had  been  shrieks  from  among  the  women  convicts,  but 
they  had  been  stilled,  and  a hush  had  succeeded.  The  sheriffs  with  their  great 
chains  and  nosegays,  other  civic  gewgaws  and  monsters,  criers,  ushers,  a great 
gallery  full  of  people — a large  theatrical  audience — looked  on,  as  the  two-and- 
thirty  and  the  Judge  were  solemnly  confronted.  Then,  the  Judge  addressed  them. 
Among  the  wretched  creatures  before  him  whom  he  must  single  out  for  special 
address,  was  one  who  almost  from  his  infancy  had  been  an  offender  against  the 
laws ; who,  after  repeated  imprisonments  and  punishments,  had  been  at  length 
sentenced  to  exile  for  a term  of  years ; and  who,  under  circumstances  of  great  vio- 
lence and  daring,  had  made  his  escape  and  been  re-sentenced  to  exile  for  life. 
That  miserable  man  would  seem  for  a time  to  have  become  convinced  of  his  errors, 
when  far  removed  from  the  scenes  of  his  old  offences,  and  to  have  lived  a peace- 
able and  honest  life.  But  in  a fatal  moment,  yielding  to  those  propensities  and 
passions,  the  indulgence  of  which  had  so  long  rendered  him  a scourge  to  society, 
ne  had  quitted  his  haven  of  rest  and  repentance,  and  had  come  back  to  the  country 
where  he  was  proscribed.  Being  here  presently  denounced,  he  had  for  a time 
succeeded  in  evading  the  officers  of  Justice,  but  being  at  length  seized  while  in  the 
act  of  flight,  he  had  resisted  them,  and  had — he  best  knew  whether  by  express 
design,  or  in  the  blindness  of  his  hardihood — caused  the  death  of  his  denouncer,  to 
whom  his  whole  career  was  known.  The  appointed  punishment  for  his  return  to 
the  land  that  had  cast  him  out  being  Death,  and  his  case  being  this  aggravated 
case,  he  must  prepare  himself  to  Die. 

The  sun  was  striking  in  at  the  great  windows  of  the  court,  through  the  glittering 
drops  of  rain  upon  the  glass,  and  it  made  a broad  shaft  of  light  between  the  two 


He  is  tried  and  sentenced. 


489 

end-thirty  and  the  Judge,  linking  both  together,  and  perhaps  reminding  some 
among  the  audience,  how  both  were  passing  on,  with  absolute  equality,  to  the 
greater  Judgment  that  knoweth  all  things  and  cannot  err.  Rising  for  a moment, 
a distinct  speck  of  face  in  this  way  of  light,  the  prisoner  said,  “ My  Lord,  I have 
received  my  sentence  of  Death  from  the  Almighty,  but  I bow  to  yours,”  and  sat 
down  again.  There  was  some  hushing,  and  the  Judge  went  on  with  what  he  had 
to  say  to  the  rest.  Then,  they  were  all  formally  doomed,  and  some  of  them  were 
supported  out,  and  some  of  them  sauntered  out  with  a haggard  look  of  bravery, 
and  a few  nodded  to  the  gallery,  and  two  or  three  shook  hands,  and  others  went 
out  chewing  the  fragments  of  herb  they  had  taken  from  the  sweet  herbs  lying 
about.  He  went  last  of  all,  because  of  having  to  be  helped  from  his  chair  and  to 
go  very  slowly  ; and  he  held  my  hand  while  all  the  others  were  removed,  and 
while  the  audience  got  up  (putting  their  dresses  right,  as  they  might  at  church  or 
elsewhere)  and  pointed  down  at  this  criminal  or  at  that,  and  most  of  all  at  him 
and  me. 

I earnestly  hoped  and  prayed  that  he  might  die  before  the  Recorder’s  Report 
was  made,  but,  in  the  dread  of  his  lingering  on,  I began  that  night  to  write  out  a 
petition  to  the  Home  Secretary  of  State,  setting  forth  my  knowledge  of  him,  and 
how  it  was  that  he  had  come  back  for  my  sake.  I wrote  it  as  fervently  and 
pathetically  as  I could,  and  when  I had  finished  it  and  sent  it  in,  I wrote  out  other 
petitions  to  such  men  in  authority  as  I hoped  were  the  most  merciful,  and  drew  up 
one  to  the  Crown  itself.  For  several  days  and  nights  after  he  was  sentenced  I 
took  no  rest,  except  when  I fell  asleep  in  my  chair,  but  was  wholly  absorbed  in 
these  appeals.  And  after  1 had  sent  them  in,  I could  not  keep  away  from  the 
places  where  they  were,  but  felt  as  if  they  were  more  hopeful  and  less  desperate 
when  I was  near  them.  In  this  unreasonable  restlessness  and  pain  of  mind,  I 
would  roam  the  streets  of  an  evening,  wandering  by  those  offices  and  houses  where 
I had  left  the  petitions.  To  the  present  hour,  the  weary  western  streets  of  London 
on  a cold  dusty  spring  night,  with  their  ranges  of  stern  shut-up  mansions  and  their 
long  rows  of  lamps,  are  melancholy  to  me  from  this  association. 

The  daily  visits  I could  make  him  were  shortened  now,  and  he  was  more  strictly 
kept.  Seeing,  or  fancying,  that  I was  suspected  of  an  intention  of  carrying  poison 
to  him,  I asked  to  be  searched  before  I sat  down  at  his  bedside,  and  told  the 
officer  who  was  always  there,  that  I was  willing  to  do  anything  that  would  assure 
him  of  the  singleness  of  my  designs.  Nobody  was  hard  with  him  or  with  me.  There 
was  duty  to  be  done,  and  it  was  done,  but  not  harshly.  The  officer  always  gave 
me  the  assurance  that  he  was  worse,  and  some  other  sick  prisoners  in  the  room, 
and  some  other  prisoners  who  attended  on  them  as  sick  nurses  (malefactors, 
but  not  incapable  of  kindness,  God  be  thanked  !),  always  joined  in  the  same 
report. 

As  the  days  went  on,  I noticed  more  and  more  that  he  would  lie  placidly  look- 
ing at  the  white  ceiling,  with  an  absence  of  light  in  his  face,  until  some  word  of 
mine  brightened  it  for  an  instant,  and  then  it  would  subside  again.  Sometimes  he 
was  almost,  or  quite,  unable  to  speak ; then,  he  would  answer  me  with  slight 
pressures  on  my  hand,  and  I grew  to  understand  his  meaning  very  well. 

The  number  of  the  days  had  risen  to  ten,  when  I saw  a greater  change  in  him 
than  I had  seen  yet.  His  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  door,  and  lighted  up  as  1 
enteied. 

“ Dear  boy,”  he  said,  as  I sat  down  by  his  bed  : “I  thought  you  was  late.  BuJ 
I knowed  you  couldn’t  be  that.” 

“ It  is  just  the  time,”  said  I.  “ I waited  for  it  at  the  gate.” 

14  You  always  waits  at  the  gate  ; don’t  you,  dear  boy  ? ” 

“ Yes.  Not  to  lose  a moment  of  the  time.” 


49^  Great  Expectations . 

“ Thank’ee,  dear  boy,  thank’ee.  God  bless  you  ! You’ve  never  deserted  me, 
dear  boy.” 

I pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  for  I could  not  forget  that  I had  once  meant  to 
desei  t him. 

“ And  what’s  the  best  of  all,”  he  said,  “ you’ve  been  more  comfortable  alonger 
me,  since  I was  under  a dark  cloud,  than  when  the  sun  shone.  That’s  best  of 
all.” 

He  lay  on  his  back,  breathing  with  great  difficulty,  Do  what  he  would,  and 
love  me  though  he  did,  the  light  left  his  face  ever  and  again,  and  a film  came  ovei 
the  placid  look  at  the  white  ceiling. 

“ Are  you  in  much  pain  to-day  ? 99 

“ I don’t  complain  of  none,  dear  boy.” 

“ You  never  do  complain.” 

He  had  spoken  his  last  words.  He  smiled,  and  I understood  his  touch  to 
mean  that  he  wished  to  lift  my  hand,  and  lay  it  on  his  breast.  I laid  it  there,  and 
he  smiled  again,  and  put  both  his  hands  upon  it. 

The  allotted  time  ran  out,  while  we  were  thus  ; but,  looking  round,  I found  the 
governor  of  the  prison  standing  near  me,  and  he  whispered,  “You  needn’t  go 
yet.”  I thanked  him  gratefully,  and  asked,  “ Might  I speak  to  him,  if  he  can 
hear  me  ? ” 

The  governor  stepped  aside,  and  beckoned  the  officer  away.  The  change, 
though  it  was  made  without  noise,  drew  back  the  film  from  the  placid  look  at  the 
white  ceiling,  and  he  looked  most  affectionately  at  me. 

“Dear  Magwitch,  I must  tell  you,  now  at  last.  You  understand  what  I say  ? 99 

A gentle  pressure  on  my  hand. 

“ You  had  a child  once,  whom  you  loved  and  lost.” 

A stronger  pressure  on  my  hand. 

“ She  lived  and  found  powerful  friends.  She  is  living  now.  She  is  a lady  and 
very  beautiful.  And  I love  her  ! ” 

With  a last  faint  effort,  which  would  have  been  powerless  but  for  my  yielding 
to  it,  and  assisting  it,  he  raised  my  hand  to  his  lips.  Then  he  gently  let  it  sink 
upon  his  breast  again,  with  his  own  hands  lying  on  it.  The  placid  look  at  the 
white  ceiling  came  back,  and  passed  away,  and  his  head  dropped  quietly  on  his 
breast. 

Mindful,  then,  of  what  we  had  read  together,  I thought  of  the  two  men  who 
went  up  into  the  Temple  to  pray,  and  I knew  there  were  no  better  words  that  I 
could  say  beside  his  bed,  than  “ O Lord,  be  merciful  to  him  a sinner ! 99 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Now  that  I was  left  wholly  to  myself  I gave  notice  of  my  intention  to  quit  the 
chambers  in  the  Temple  as  soon  as  my  tenancy  could  legally  determine,  and  in  the 
meanwhile  to  underlet  them.  At  once  I put  bills  up  in  the  windows  ; for,  I was 
in  debt,  and  had  scarcely  any  money,  and  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed  by  the 
state  of  my  affairs.  I ought  rather  to  write  that  I should  have  been  alarmed  if  I 
had  had  energy  and  concentration  enough  to  help  me  to  the  clear  perception  of 
any  truth  beyond  the  fact  that  I was  falling  very  ill.  The  late  stress  upon  me  had 
enabled  me  to  put  off  illness,  but  not  to  put  it  away ; I knew  that  it  was  coming 
on  me  now,  and  I knew  very  little  else,  and  was  even  careless  as  to  that. 

For  a day  or  two,  I lay  on  the  sofa,  or  on  the  floor — anywhere,  according  as  i 


Joe  tends  me  in  my  Sickness . 


49' 


Happened  to  sink  down — with  a heavy  head  and  aching  limbs,  and  no  purpose, 
and  no  power.  Then  there  came  one  night  which  appeared  of  great  duration,  and 
which  teemed  with  anxiety  and  honor;  and  when  in  the  morning  1 tried  to  sit  up 
in  my  bed  and  think  of  it,  I found  I could  not  do  so. 

Whether  I really  had  been  down  in  Garden-court  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
groping  about  for  the  boat  that  I supposed  to  be  there ; whether  I had  two  or 
three  times  come  to  myself  on  the  staircase  with  great  terror,  not  knowing  how  I 
had  got  out  of  bed  ; whether  I had  found  myself  lighting  the  lamp,  possessed  by 
the  idea  that  he  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  that  the  lights  were  blown  out ; 
whether  I had  been  inexpressibly  harassed  by  the  distracted  talking,  laughing,  and 
groaning,  of  some  one,  and  had  half  suspected  those  sounds  to  be  of  my  own 
making ; whether  there  had  been  a closed  iron  furnace  in  a dark  corner  of  the 
room,  and  a voice  had  called  out  over  and  over  again  that  Miss  Havisham  was 
consuming  within  it ; these  were  things  that  I tried  to  settle  with  myself  and  get 
into  some  order,  as  I lay  that  morning  on  my  bed.  But  the  vapour  of  a limekiln 
would  come  between  me  and  them,  disordering  them  all,  and  it  was  through  the 
vapour  at  last  that  I saw  two  men  looking  at  me. 

“ What  do  you  want  ? ” I asked,  starting  ; “ I don’t  know  you.” 

“ Well,  sir,”  returned  one  of  them,  bending  down  and  touching  me  on  the 
shoulder,  “this  is  a matter  that  you’ll  soon  arrange,  I dare  say,  but  you’re 
arrested.” 

“ What  is  the  debt  ? ” 

“ Hundred  and  twenty- three  pound,  fifteen,  six.  Jeweller’s  account,  I think.” 

“ What  is  to  be  done  ? ” 

“You  had  better  come  to  my  house,  ’ said  the  man.  “I  keep  a very  nice 
house.” 

I made  some  attempt  to  get  up  and  dress  myself.  When  I next  attended  to 
them,  they  were  standing  a little  off  from  the  bed,  looking  at  me.  I still  lay 
there. 

“ You  see  my  state,”  said  I.  “ I would  come  with  you  if  I could  ; but  indeed  I 
am  quite  unable.  If  you  take  me  from  here,  1 think  I shall  die  by  the  way.” 

Perhaps  they  replied,  or  argued  the  point,  or  tried  to  encourage  me  to  believe 
that  I was  better  than  I thought.  Forasmuch  as  they  hang  in  my  memory  by 
only  this  one  slender  thread,  I don’t  know  what  they  did,  except  that  they  forbore 
to  remove  me. 

That  I had  a fever  and  was  avoided,  that  I suffered  greatly,  that  I often  lost  my 
reason,  that  the  time  seemed  interminable,  that  I confounded  impossible  existences 
with  my  own  identity ; that  I was  a brick  in  the  house  wall,  and  yet  entreating  to 
be  released  from  the  giddy  place  where  the  builders  had  set  me  ; that  I was  a steel 
beam  of  a vast  engine,  clashing  and  whirling  over  a gulf,  and  yet  that  I implored 
in  my  own  person  to  have  the  engine  stopped,  and  my  part  in  it  hammered  off  ,* 
that  I passed  through  these  phases  of  disease,  I know  of  my  own  remembrance, 
and  did  in  some  sort  know  at  the  time.  That  I sometimes  struggled  with  real 
people,  in  the  belief  that  they  wrere  murderers,  and  that  I would  all  at  once  com- 
prehend that  they  meant  to  do  me  good,  and  would  then  sink  exhausted  in  their 
arms,  and  suffer  them  to  lay  me  down,  I also  knew  at  the  time.  But,  above  all,  I 
knew  that  there  was  a constant  tendency  in  all  these  people — who,  when  I was 
very  ill,  would  present  all  kinds  of  extraordinary  transformations  of  the  human 
face,  and  would  be  much  dilated  in  size — above  all,  I say,  I knew  that  there  was 
an  extraordinary  tendency  in  all  these  people,  sooner  or  later,  to  settle  down  into 
the  likeness  of  Joe. 

After  I had  turned  the  worse  point  of  my  illness,  I began  to  notice  that  while 
ill  its  other  fea  ture>  changed,  this  one  consistent  feature  did  not  change.  Who* 


492 


Great  Expectations . 


ever  came  about  me,  still  settled  down  into  Joe.  I opened  my  eyes  in  the  night, 
and  I saw  in  the  great  chair  at  the  bedside,  Joe.  I opened  my  eyes  in  the  day, 
and,  sitting  on  the  window-seat,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  shaded  open  window, 
still  I saw  Joe.  I asked  for  cooling  drink,  and  the  dear  hand  that  gave  it  me  was 
Joe’s.  I sank  back  on  my  pillow  after  drinking,  and  the  face  that  looked  so  hope- 
fully and  tenderly  upon  me  was  the  face  of  Joe. 

At  last,  one  day,  I took  courage,  and  said,  “Is  it  Joe  ?” 

And  the  dear  old  home-voice  answered,  “ Which  it  air,  old  chap.” 

“ O Joe,  you  break  my  heart ! Look  angry  at  me,  Joe.  Strike  me,  Joe.  Tell 
me  of  my  ingratitude.  Don’t  be  so  good  to  me  ! ” 

For,  Joe  had  actually  laid  his  head  down  on  the  pillow  at  my  side,  and  put  his 
arm  round  my  neck,  in  his  joy  that  I knew  him. 

“ Which  dear  old  Pip,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  “ you  and  me  was  ever  friends.  And 
when  you’re  well  enough  to  go  out  for  a ride — what  larks  ! ” 

After  which,  Joe  withdrew  to  the  window,  and  stood  with  his  back  towards  me, 
wiping  his  eyes.  And  as  my  extreme  weakness  prevented  me  from  getting  up  and 
going  to  him,  I lay  there,  penitently  whispering,  “ O God  bless  him!  O fod 
bless  this  gentle  Christian  man  ! ” 

Joe’s  eyes  were  red  when  I next  found  him  beside  me;  but,  I was  holding  his 
hand  and  we  both  felt  happy. 

“ How  long,  dear  Joe  ? ” 

“ Which  you  meantersay,  Pip,  how  long  have  your  illness  lasted,  deal  old 
chap  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Joe.” 

“ It’s  the  end  of  May,  Pip.  To-morrow  is  the  first  of  June.” 

“ And  have  you  been  here  all  the  time,  dear  Joe  ? ” 

“ Pretty  nigh,  old  chap.  For,  as  I says  to  Biddy  when  the  news  of  your  being 
ill  were  brought  by  letter,  which  it  were  brought  by  the  post,  and  bein'/  formerly 
single  he  is  now  married  though  underpaid  for  a deal  of  walking  and  ? nr  e-itather, 
but  wealth  were  not  a object  on  his  part,  and  marriage  were  the  grszt  wish  of  his 
hart ” 

“ It  is  so  delightful  to  hear  you,  Joe  ! But  I interrupt  vou  in  wfr.t  you  said  to 
Biddy.” 

“ Which  it  were,”  said  Joe,  “ that  how  you  might  be  among?  f Grangers,  and 
that  how  you  and  me  having  been  ever  friends,  a wisit  at  such  u moment  might 
not  prove  unacceptabobble.  And  Biddy,  her  word  were,  * Go  •/)  him,  without 
loss  of  time.’  That,”  said  Joe,  summing  up  with  his  judicial  ai  , “ were  the  word 
of  Biddy.  ‘ Go  to  him,’  Biddy  say,  ‘ without  loss  of  time.’  Iv  ihort,  I shouldn’t 
greatly  deceive  you,”  Joe  added,  after  a little  grave  reflection,  ‘'if  I represented 
to  you  that  the  word  of  that  young  woman  were,  ‘ without  a minute’s  loss 
of  time.’  ” 

There  Joe  cut  himself  short,  and  informed  me  that  I was  >o  be  talked  to  in  great 
moderation,  and  that  I was  to  take  a little  nourishment  af  Hated  frequent  times, 
whether  I felt  inclined  for  it  or  not,  and  that  I was  to  submit  myself  to  all  his 
orders.  So,  I kissed  his  hand,  and  lay  quiet,  while  he  proceeded  to  indite  a note 
to  Biddy,  with  my  love  in  it. 

Evidently  Biddy  had  taught  Joe  to  write.  As  I lay  in  bed  looking  at  him,  it 
made  me,  in  my  weak  state,  cry  again  with  pleasure  to  soe  the  pride  ■»vith  which 
he  set  about  his  letter.  My  bedstead,  divested  of  its  curtains,  had  been  removed, 
with  me  upon  it,  into  the  sitting-room,  as  the  airiest  zud  largest,  an*>  the  carpet 
had  been  taken  away,  and  the  room  kept  always  fresh  and  wholesome  night  and 
day.  At  my  own  writing-table,  pushed  into  a corner  and  cumbered  with  little 
bottles,  Joe  now  sat  down  to  his  great  work,  first  choosing  a pen  fr»<n  the  pen* 


Joe  and  1 talk  things  over. 


49$ 


tray  as  if  it  were  a chest  of  large  tools,  and  tucking  up  his  sleeves  as  if  he  wert 
going  to  wield  a crowbar  or  sledge-hammer.  It  was  necessary  for  Joe  to  hold  on 
heavily  to  the  table  with  his  left  elbow,  and  to  get  his  right  leg  well  out  behind 
him,  before  he  could  begin,  and  when  he  did  begin  he  made  every  down-stroke  so 
slowly  that  it  might  have  been  six  feet  long,  while  at  every  up-stroke  I could  hear 
his  pen  spluttering  extensively.  He  had  a curious  idea  that  the  inkstand  was  on 
the  side  of  him  where  it  was  not,  and  constantly  dipped  his  pen  into  space,  and 
seemed  quite  satisfied  with  the  result.  Occasionally,  he  was  tripped  up  by  some 
orthographical  stumbling-block,  but  on  the  whole  he  got  on  very  well  indeed,  and 
when  he  had  signed  his  name,  and  had  removed  a finishing  blot  from  the  paper  to 
the  crown  of  his  head  with  his  two  forefingers,  he  got  up  and  hovered  about  the 
table,  trying  the  effect  of  his  performance  from  various  points  of  view  as  it  lay 
there,  with  unbounded  satisfaction. 

Not  to  make  Joe  uneasy  by  talking  too  much,  even  if  I had  been  able  to  talk 
much,  I deferred  asking  him  about  Miss  Havisham  until  next  day.  He  shook  his 
head  when  I then  asked  him  if  she  had  recovered  ? 

“ Is  she  dead,  Joe  ? ” 

“ Why,  you  see,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  in  a tone  of  remonstrance,  and  by  way  o f 
getting  at  it  by  degrees,  “ I wouldn’t  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  for  that’s  a deal  to 
say  ; but  she  ain’t ” 

“Living,  Joe  ? ” 

“ That’s  nigher  where  it  is,”  said  Joe  ; “ she  ain’t  living.” 

“ Did  she  linger  long,  Joe  ?” 

“Arteryouwas  took  ill,  pretty  much  about  what  you  might  call  (if  you  was 
put  to  it)  a week,”  said  Joe ; still  determined,  on  my  account,  to  come  at  every- 
thing by  degrees. 

“ Dear  Joe,  have  you  heard  what  becomes  of  her  property  ? ” 

“ Well,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  “it  do  appear  that  she  had  settled  the  most  of  it, 
which  I meantersay  tied  it  up,  on  Miss  Estella.  But  she  had  wrote  out  a little 
coddleshell  in  her  own  hand  a day  or  two  afore  the  accident,  leaving  a cool  four 
thousand  to  Mr.  Matthew  Pocket.  And  why,  do  you  suppose,  above  all  things, 
Pip,  she  left  that  cool  four  thousand  unto  him  ? * Because  of  Pip’s  account  of 

him  the  said  Matthew.’  I am  told  by  Biddy,  that  air  the  writing,”  said  Joe, 
iepeating  the  legal  turn  as  if  it  did  him  infinite  good,  “ ‘account  of  him  the  said 
Matthew.’  And  a cool  rour  thousand,  Pip  ! ” 

I never  discovered  from  whom  Joe  derived  the  conventional  temperature  of  the 
four  thousand  pounds,  but  it  appeared  to  make  the  sum  of  money  more  to  him, 
and  he  had  a manifest  relish  in  insisting  on  its  being  cool. 

This  account  gave  .me  great  joy,  as  it  perfected  the  only  good  thing  I had 
done.  I asked  Joe  whether  he  had  heard  if  any  of  the  other  relations  had  any 
legacies  ? 

“ Miss  Sarah,”  said  Joe,  “ she  have  twenty-five  pound  perannium  fur  to  buy 
pills,  on  account  of  being  bilious.  Miss  Georgiana,  she  have  twenty  pound  down. 
Mrs. what’s  the  name  of  them  wild  beasts  with  humps,  old  chap  ? ” 

“ Camels  ? ” said  I,  wondering  why  he  could  possibly  want  to  know. 

Joe  nodded.  “ Mrs.  Camels,”  by  which  I presently  understood  he  meant 
Camilla,  “ she  have  five  pound  fur  to  buy  rushlights  to  put  her  in  spirits  when  she 
wake  up  in  the  night.” 

The  accuracy  of  these  recitals  was  sufficiently  obvious  to  me,  to  give  me  great 
confidence  in  Joe’s  information.  “And  now,”  said  Joe,  “you  ain’t  that  strong 
yet,  old  chap,  that  you  can  take  in  more  nor  one  additional  shovel-full  to-  day, 
Old  Orlick  he’s  been  a bustin’  open  a dwelling-ouse.” 

“ Whose?”  said  L 


494 


Great  Expectations. 


“ Not,  I grant  you,  but  what  his  manners  is  given  to  blusterous,”  said  Joe, 
apologetically  ; “ still,  a Englishman’s  ouse  is  his  Castle,  and  castles  must  not  be 
busted  ’cept  when  done  in  war  time.  And  wotsume’er  the  failings  on  his  part, 
he  were  a corn  and  seedsman  in  his  hart.” 

“ Is  it  Pumblechook’s  house  that  has  been  broken  into,  then  ? ” 

“That’s  it,  Pip,”  said  Joe  ; “and  they  took  his  till,  and  they  took  his  cash- 
box,  and  they  chinked  his  wine,  and  they  partook  of  his  wittles,  and  they 
slapped  his  face,  and  they  pulled  his  nose,  and  they  tied  him  up  to  his  bedpust, 
and  they  giv’  him  a dozen,  and  they  stuffed  his  mouth  full  of  flowering  annuals  to 
perwent  his  crying  out.  But  he  knowed  Orlick,  and  Orlick ’s  in  the  county 
jail.” 

By  these  approaches  we  arrived  at  unrestricted  conversation.  I was  slow  to 
gain  strength,  but  I did  slowly  and  surely  become  less  weak,  and  Joe  stayed  with 
me,  and  I fancied  I was  little  Pip  again. 

For,  the  tenderness  of  Joe  was  so  beautifully  proportioned  to  my  need,  that  I 
was  like  a child  in  his  hands.  He  would  sit  and  talk  to  me  in  the  old  confidence, 
md  with  the  old  simplicity,  and  in  the  old  unassertive  protecting  way,  so  that  I 
would  half  believe  that  all  my  life  since  the  days  of  the  old  kitchen  was  one  of  the 
mental  troubles  of  the  fever  that  was  gone.  He  did  everything  for  me  except 
the  household  work,  for  which  he  had  engaged  a very  decent  woman,  after  paying 
off  the  laundress  on  his  first  arrival.  “ Which  I do  assure  you,  Pip,”  he  would  often 
say,  in  explanation  of  that  liberty  ; “I  found  her  a tapping  the  spare  bed,  like  a 
cask  of  beer,  and  drawing  off  the  feathers  in  a bucket,  for  sale.  Which  she  would 
have  tapped  yourn  next,  and  draw’d  it  off  with  you  a laying  on  it,  and  was  then 
a carrying  away  the  coals  gradiwally  in  the  soup-tureen  and  wegetable-dishes,  and 
the  wine  and  spirits  in  your  Wellington  boots  ” 

We  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  I should  go  out  for  a ride,  as  we  had  once 
rooked  forward  to  the  day  of  my  apprenticeship.  And  when  the  day  came,  and 
an  open  carriage  was  got  into  the  Lane,  Joe  wrapped  me  up,  took  me  in  his  arms, 
earned  me  down  to  it,  and  put  me  in,  as  if  I were  still  the  small  helpless  creature 
to  whom  he  had  so  abundantly  given  of  the  wealth  of  his  great  nature. 

And  Joe  got  in  beside  me,  and  we  drove  away  together  into  the  country,  where  the 
rich  summer  growth  was  already  on  the  trees  and  on  the  grass,  and  sweet  summer 
scents  filled  all  the  air.  The  day  happened  to  be  Sunday,  and  when  I looked  on 
the  loveliness  around  me,  and  thought  how  it  had  grown  and  changed,  and  how 
the  little  wild  flowers  had  been  forming,  and  the  voices  of  the  birds  had  been 
strengthening,  by  day  and  by  night,  under  the  sun  and  under  the  stars,  while  poor 
I lay  burning  and  tossing  on  my  bed,  the  mere  remembrance  of  having  burned 
and  tossed  there,  came  like  a check  upon  my  peace.  But,  when  I heard  the 
Sunday  bells,  and  looked  around  a little  more  upon  the  outspread  beauty,  I felt 
that  I was  not  nearly  thankful  enough — that  I was  too  weak  yet,  to  be  even 
that — and  I laid  my  head  on  Joe’s  shoulder,  as  I had  laid  it  long  ago  when  he  had 
taken  me  to  the  Fair  or  where  not,  and  it  was  too  much  for  my  young  senses. 

More  composure  came  to  me  after  a while,  and  we  tallied  as  we  used  to  talk, 
lying  on  the  grass  at  the  old  Battery.  There  was  no  change  whatever  in  Joe. 
Exactly  what  he  had  been  in  my  eyes  then,  he  was  in  my  eyes  still ; just  as  simpl) 
faithful,  just  as  simply  right. 

When  we  got  back  again  and  he  lifted  me  out,  and  carried  me — so  easily ! — 
across  the  court  and  up  the  stairs,  I thought  of  that  eventful  Christmas  Day  when 
he  had  carried  me  over  the  marshes.  We  had  not  yet  made  any  allusion  to  my 
change  of  fortune,  nor  did  I knowhow  much  of  my  late  history  he  was  acquainted 
with.  I was  so  doubtful  of  myself  now,  and  put  so  much  trust  in  him,  that  I 
cou’.t  not  satisfy  myself  whether  I ought  to  refer  to  it  when  he  did  not. 


'Things  necessary  and  unnecessary . 


495 


44  Have  you  heard,  Joe,”  I asked  him  that  evening,  upon  further  consideration, 
as  he  smoked  his  pipe  at  the  window,  “ who  my  patron  was  ? ” 

“ I heerd,”  returned  Joe,  “ as  it  were  not  Miss  Havisham,  old  chap.” 

“ Did  you  hear  who  it  was,  Joe  ? ” 

“ Well ! I heerd  as  it  were  a person  what  sent  the  person  what  giv*  you  th« 
bank-notes  at  the  Jelly  Bargemen,  Pip.” 

“ So  it  was.” 

“Astonishing ! ” said  Joe,  in  the  placidest  way. 

“ Did  you  hear  that  he  was  dead,  Joe  ? ” I presently  asked,  with  increasing 
diffidence. 

“ Which  ? Him  as  sent  the  bank-notes,  Pip  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I think,”  said  Joe,  after  meditating  a long  time,  and  looking  rather  evasively 
at  the  window-seat,  “as  I did  hear  tell  that  how  he  were  something  or  another 
in  a general  way  in  that  direction.” 

“ Did  you  hear  anything  of  his  circumstances,  Joe  ? ” 

“ Not  partickler,  Pip.” 

“ If  you  would  like  to  hear,  Joe «”  I was  beginning,  when  Joe  got  up  and 

came  to  my  sofa. 

“ Lookee  here,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  bending  over  me.  “ Ever  the  best  of 
friends  ; ain’t  us,  Pip  ? ” 

I was  ashamed  to  answer  him. 

“ Werry  good,  then,”  said  Joe,  as  if  I had  answered  ; “ that’s  all  right ; that’s 
agreed  upon.  They  why  go  into  subjects,  old  chap,  which  as  betwixt  two  sech 
must  be  for  ever  onnecessary  ? There’s  subjects  enough  as  betwixt  two  sech, 
without  onnecessary  ones.  Lord ! To  think  of  your  poor  sister  and  her  Ram- 
pages ! And  don’t  you  remember  Tickler  ? ” 

“I  do  indeed,  Joe.” 

“ Lookee  here,  old  chap,”  said  Joe.  “ I done  what  I could  to  keep  you  and 
Tickler  in  sunders,  but  my  power  were  not  always  fully  equal  to  my  inclinations. 
For  when  your  poor  sister  had  a mind  to  drop  into  you,  it  were  not  so  much,” 
said  Joe,  in  his  favourite  argumentative  way,  “ that  she  dropped  into  me  too,  if  I 
put  myself  in  opposition  to  her,  but  that  she  dropped  into  you  always  heavier  for  it. 
I noticed  that.  It  ain’t  a grab  at  a man’s  whisker,  nor  yet  a shake  or  two  of  a man 
(to  which  your  sister  was  quite  welcome),  that  ’ud  put  a man  off  from  getting  a 
little  child  out  of  punishment.  But  when  that  little  child  is  dropped  into,  heavier, 
for  that  grab  of  whisker  or  shaking,  then  that  man  naterally  up  and  says  to 
himself,  ‘Where  is  the  good  as  you  are  a doing  ? I grant  you  I see  the  ’arm,’ 
says  the  man,  ‘ but  I don’t  see  the  good.  I call  upon  you,  sir,  therefore,  to  pint 
out  the  good.*  ” 

“ The  man  says  ? ” I observed,  as  Joe  waited  for  me  to  speak. 

“ The  man  says,”  Joe  assented.  “ Is  he  right,  that  man  ? ” 

“ Dear  Joe,  he  is  always  right.” 

“Well,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  “then  abide  by  your  words.  If  he’s  always 
right  (which  in  general  lie’s  more  likely  wrong),  he’s  right  when  he  says  this  : — 
Supposing  ever  you  kep  any  little  matter  to  yourself,  when  you  was  a little  child, 
you  kep  it  mostly  because  you  know’d  as  J.  Gargery’s  power  to  part  you  and  Tickler 
in  sunders,  were  not  fully  equal  to  his  inclinations.  Theerfore,  think  no  more  of 
it  as  betwixt  two  sech,  and  do  not  let  us  pass  remarks  upon  onnecessary  subjects. 
Biddy  giv’  herself  a deal  o’  trouble  with  me  afore  I left  (for  I am  most  awful 
dull),  as  I should  view  it  in  this  light,  and,  viewing  it  in  this  light,  as  I sh  )uld 
ser  put  it.  Both  of  which,”  said  Joe,  quite  charmed  with  his  logical  arrange- 
ment, “being  done,  now  this  to  you  a true  friend,  say.  Namely.  You  mustn’t 


Great  Expectations . 


496 

go  a over-doing  on  it,  but  you  must  have  your  supper  and  your  wine-and-water, 
and  you  must  be  put  betwixt  the  sheets.  ” 

The  delicacy  with  which  Joe  dismissed  this  theme,  and  the  sweet  tact  and 
kindness  with  which  Biddy — who  with  her  woman’s  wit  had  found  me  out  so  soon 
• — had  prepared  him  for  it,  made  a deep  impression  on  my  mind.  But  whether 
Joe  knew  how  poor  I was,  and  how  my  great  expectations  had  all  dissolved,  like 
our  own  marsh  mists  before  the  sun,  I could  not  understand. 

Another  thing  in  Joe  that  I could  not  understand  when  it  first  began  to  develop 
itself,  but  which  I soon  arrived  at  a sorrowful  comprehension  of,  was  this  : As  I 
became  stronger  and  better,  Joe  became  a little  less  easy  with  me.  In  my  weak- 
ness and  entire  dependence  on  him,  the  dear  fellow  had  fallen  into  the  old  tone, 
and  called  me  by  the  old  names,  the  dear  “old  Pip,  old  chap,”  that  now  were 
music  in  my  ears.  I too  had  fallen  into  the  old  ways,  only  happy  and  thankful 
that  he  let  me.  But,  imperceptibly,  though  I held  by  them  fast,  Joe’s  hold 
upon  them  began  to  slacken ; and  whereas  I wondered  at  this,  at  first,  I soon 
began  to  understand  that  the  cause  of  it  was  in  me,  and  that  the  fault  of  it  was  all 
mine. 

Ah  ! Had  I given  Joe  no  ieason  to  doubt  my  constancy,  and  to  think  that 
in  prosperity  I should  grow  cold  to  him  and  cast  him  off  ? Had  I given  Joe’s 
innocent  heart  no  cause  to  feel  instinctively  that  as  I got  stronger,  his  hold  upon 
me  would  be  weaker,  and  that  he  had  better  loosen  it  in  time  and  let  me  go, 
before  I plucked  myself  away  ? 

It  was  on  the  third  or  fourth  occasion  of  my  going  out  walking  in  the  Temple 
Gardens,  leaning  on  Joe’s  arm,  that  I saw  this  change  in  him  very  plainly.  We 
had  been  sitting  in  the  bright  warm  sunlight,  looking  at  the  river,  and  I chanced 
to  say  as  we  got  up  : 

“ See,  Joe  I I can  walk  quite  strongly.  Now,  you  shall  see  me  walk  back  by 
myself.” 

“ Which  do  not  over-do  it,  Pip,”  said  Joe  ; “ but  I shall  be  happy  fur  to  see 
you  able,  sir.” 

The  last  word  grated  on  me ; but  how  could  I remonstrate  ! I walked  no 
further  than  the  gate  of  the  gardens,  and  then  pretended  to  be  weaker  than  I was, 
and  asked  Joe  for  his  arm.  Joe  gave  it  me,  but  wTas  thoughtful. 

I,  for  my  part,  was  thoughtful  too  ; for  how  best  to  check  this  growing  change 
in  Joe,  was  a great  perplexity  to  my  remorseful  thoughts.  That  I was  ashamed  to 
tell  him  exactly  how  I was  placed,  and  what  I had  come  down  to,  I do  not  seek 
to  conceal ; but,  I hope  my  reluctance  was  not  quite  an  unworthy  one.  He  would 
want  to  help  me  out  of  his  little  savings,  I knew,  and  I knew  that  he  ought  not  to 
help  me,  and  that  I must  not  suffer  him  to  do  it. 

It  was  a thoughtful  evening  with  both  of  us.  But,  before  we  went  to  bed,  I had 
resolved  that  I would  wait  over  to-morrow,  to-morrow  being  Sunday,  and  would 
begin  my  new  course  with  the  new  week.  On  Monday  morning  I would  speak  to 
Joe  about  this  change,  I would  lay  aside  this  last  vestige  of  reserve,  I would  tell 
him  what  I had  in  my  thoughts  (that  Secondly,  not  yet  arrived  at),  and  why  I had 
not  decided  to  go  out  to  Herbert,  and  then  the  change  would  be  conquered  for 
ever.  As  I cleared,  Joe  cleared,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  sympathetically 
arrived  at  a resolution  too. 

We  had  a quiet  day  on  the  Sunday,  and  we  rode  oat  into  the  country,  and  then 
k alked  in  the  fields. 

“ I feel  thankful  that  I have  been  ill,  Joe,”  I said. 

“ Dear  old  Pip,  old  chap,  you’re  a’most  come  round,  sir.” 

“ It  has  been  a memorable  time  for  me,  Joe.” 

“ Like  ways  for  myself,  sir,”  Joe  returned. 


Joe  aeutately  leaves  me . 497 

“We  have  had  a time  together,  Joe,  that  I can  never  forget.  There  were  days 
once,  I know,  that  I did  for  a while  forget ; but  I never  shall  forget  these.’* 

“ Pip,”  said  Joe,  appearing  a little  hurried  and  troubled,  “ there  has  been  larks 
And,  dear  sir,  what  have  been  betwixt  us — have  been.” 

At  night,  when  I had  gone  to  bed,  Joe  came  into  my  room,  as  he  had  done 
all  through  my  recovery.  He  asked  me  if  I felt  sure  that  I was  as  well  as  in  the 
.noming  ? 

“ Yes,  dear  Joe,  quite.” 

“ And  are  always  a getting  stronger,  old  chap  ? ” 

“Yes,  dear  Joe,  steadily.” 

Joe  patted  the  coverlet  on  my  shoulder  with  his  great  good  hand,  and  said,  in 
what  I thought  a husky  voice,  “ Good  night !” 

When  I got  up  in  the  morning,  refreshed  and  stronger  yet,  I was  full  of  my 
resolution  to  tell  Joe  all,  without  delay.  I would  tell  him  before  breakfast.  I 
would  dress  at  once  and  go  to  his  room  and  surprise  him ; for,  it  was  the  first  day 
I had  been  up  early.  I went  to  his  room,  and  he  was  not  there.  Not  only  was 
he  not  there,  but  his  box  was  gone. 

I hurried  then  to  the  breakfast- table,  and  on  it  found  a letter.  These  were  its 
br'ef  contents. 

“ Not  wishful  to ; itrude  I have  departured  fur  you  are  well  again  dear  Pip  and  will  do  bette* 
without  “JO. 

“ P.S.  Ever  the  best  of  friends.” 

Enclosed  in  the  letter,  was  a receipt  for  the  debt  and  c sts  on  which  I had 
been  arrested.  Down  to  that  moment  I had  vainly  supposed  that  my  creditor  had 
withdrawn  or  suspended  proceedings  until  I should  be  quite  recovered.  I had 
never  dreamed  of  Joe’s  having  paid  the  money ; but,  Joe  had  paid  it,  and  the 
receipt  was  in  his  name. 

What  remained  for  me  now,  but  to  follow  him  to  the  dear  old  forge,  and  there 
to  have  out  my  disclosure  to  him,  and  my  penitent  remonstrance  with  him,  and 
there  to  relieve  my  mind  and  heart  of  that  reserved  Secondly,  which  had  begun 
as  a vague  something  lingering  in  my  thoughts,  and  had  formed  into  a settled 
puipose  ? 

The  purpose  was,  that  I would  go  to  Biddy,  that  I would  show  her  how  humbled 
and  repentant  I came  back,  that  1 would  tell  her  how  I had  lost  all  I once  hoped 
for,  that  I would  remind  her  of  our  old  confidences  in  my  first  unhappy  time. 
Then,  I would  say  to  her,  “ Biddy,  I think  you  once  liked  me  very  well,  when  my 
errant  heart,  even  while  it  strayed  away  from  you,  was  quieter  and  better  with  you 
than  it  ever  has  been  since.  If  you  can  like  me  only  half  as  well  once  more, 
if  you  can  take  me  with  all  my  faults  and  disappointments  on  my  head,  if  you 
can  receive  me  like  a forgiven  child  (and  indeed  I am  as  sorry,  Biddy,  and 
have  as  much  need  f a hushing  voice  and  a soothing  hand),  I hope  I am  a little 
worthier  of  you  than  I was — not  much,  but  a little.  And,  Biddy,  it  shall  rest 
with  you  to  say  whether  I shall  work  at  the  forge  with  Joe,  or  whether  I shall  try 
for  any  different  occupation  down  in  this  country,  or  whether  we  shall  go  away  to 
a distant  place  where  an  opportunity  awaits  me  which  I set  aside  when  it  was 
offered,  until  I knew  your  answer.  And  now,  dear  Biddy,  if  you  can  tell  me  that 
you  will  go  through  the  world  with  me,  you  will  surely  make  it  a better  world  for 
me,  and  me  a better  man  for  it,  and  I will  try  hard  to  make  it  a better  world 
for  you.” 

Such  was  my  purpose.  After  three  days  more  of  recovery,  I went  down  t » the 
Did  place,  to  put  it  in  execution.  And  how  I sped  in  it,  is  all  I have  left  to  tell. 


K K 


49s 


Great  Expectations . 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

The  tidings  of  my  high  fortunes  having  had  a heavy  fall,  had  got  down  to  my 
native  place  and  its  neighbourhood,  before  I got  there.  I found  the  Blue  Boar  in 
possession  of  the  intelligence,  and  I found  that  it  made  a great  change  in  the 
Boar’s  demeanour.  Whereas  the  Boar  had  cultivated  my  good  opinion  with 
warm  assiduity  when  I was  coming  into  property,  the  Boar  was  exceedingly  cool 
on  the  subject  now  that  I was  going  out  of  property. 

It  was  evening  when  I arrived,  much  fatigued  by  the  journey  I had  so  often 
made  so  easily.  The  Boar  could  not  put  me  into  my  usual  bedroom,  which  was 
engaged  (probably  by  some  one  who  had  expectations),  and  could  only  assign  me 
a very  indifferent  chamber  among  the  pigeons  and  post-chaises  up  the  yard.  But, 
I had  as  sound  a sleep  in  that  lodging  as  in  the  most  superior  accommodation 
the  Boar  could  have  given  me,  and  the  quality  of  my  dreams  was  about  the  same 
as  in  the  best  bedroom. 

Early  in  the  morning  while  my  breakfast  was  getting  ready,  I strolled  round  by 
Satis  House.  There  were  printed  bills  on  the  gate  and  on  bits  of  carpet  hanging 
out  of  the  windows,  announcing  a sale  by  auction  of  the  Household  Furniture  and 
Effects,  next  week.  The  House  itself  was  to  be  sold  as  old  building  materials, 
and  pulled  down.  Lot  i was  marked  in  whitewashed  knock-knee  letters  on  the 
brewhouse ; Lot  2 on  that  part  of  the  main  building  which  had  been  so  long 
shut  up.  Other  lots  were  marked  off  on  other  parts  of  the  structure,  and  the  ivy 
had  been  torn  down  to  make  room  for  the  inscriptions,  and  much  of  it  trailed  low 
in  the  dust  and  was  withered  already.  Stepping  in  for  a moment  at  the  open 
gate  and  looking  around  me  with  the  uncomfortable  air  of  a stranger  who  had  no 
business  there,  I saw  the  auctioneer’s  clerk  walking  on  the  casks  and  telling  them 
off  for  the  information  of  a catalogue  compiler,  pen  in  hand,  who  made  a temporary 
desk  of  the  wheeled  chair  I had  so  often  pushed  along  to  the  tune  of  Old  Clem. 

When  I got  back  to  my  breakfast  in  the  Boar’s  coffee-room,  I found  Mr.  Pum- 
blechook  conversing  with  the  landlord.  Mr.  Pumblechook  (not  improved  in 
appearance  by  his  late  nocturnal  adventure)  was  waiting  for  me,  and  addressed 
me  in  the  following  terms. 

“ Young  man,  I am  sorry  to  see  you  brought  low.  But  what  else  could  be 
expected  ! what  else  could  be  expected  ! ” 

As  he  extended  his  hand  with  a magnificently  forgiving  air,  and  as  I was  broken 
by  illness  and  unfit  to  quarrel,  I took  it. 

“William,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook  to  the  waiter,  “put  a muffin  on  table.  And 
has  it  come  to  this  ! Has  it  come  to  this ! ” 

I frowningly  sat  down  to  my  breakfast.  Mr.  Pumblechook  stood  over  me  and 
poured  out  my  tea — before  I could  touch  the  teapot — with  the  air  of  a benefactor 
who  was  resolved  to  be  true  to  the  last. 

“William,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  mournfully,  “put  the  salt  on.  In  happier 
times,”  addressing  me,  “I  think  you  took  sugar  ? And  did  you  take  milk  ? You 
did.  Sugar  and  milk.  William,  bring  a wartercress.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  I,  shortly,  “ but  I don’t  eat  watercresses.” 

“You  don’t  eat  ’em,”  returned  Mr.  Pumblechook,  sighing  and  nodding  his 
head  several  times,  as  if  he  might  have  expected  that,  and  as  if  abstinence  from 
watercresses  were  consistent  with  my  downfall.  “ True.  The  simple  fruits  of  the 
earth.  No.  You  needn’t  bring  any,  William.” 

I went  on  with  my  breakfast,  and  Mr.  Pumblechook  continued  to  stand  over  me, 
staring  fishily  and  breathing  noisily,  as  he  always  did. 


The  Founder  of  my  Fortunes  holds  forth . 


499 


“ Little  more  than  skin  and  bone  ! ” mused  Mr.  Pumblechook,  aloud.  “And 
yet  when  he  went  away  from  here  (I  may  say  with  my  blessing),  and  I spread  afore 
nim  my  humble  store,  like  the  Bee,  he  was  as  plump  as  a Peach  ! ” 

This  reminded  me  of  the  wonderful  difference  between  the  servile  manner  in 
which  he  had  offered  his  hand  in  my  new  prosperity,  saying,  “ May  I ? ” and  the 
ostentatious  clemency  with  which  he  had  just  now  exhibited  the  same  fat  five  fingers. 

“ Hah  ! ” he  went  on,  handing  me  the  bread-and-butter.  “ And  air  you  a going 
to  Joseph  ? ” 

“In  Heaven’s  name,”  said  I,  firing  in  spite  of  myself,  “what  does  it  matter 
to  you  where  I am  going  ? Leave  that  teapot  alone.” 

It  was  the  worst  course  I could  have'  taken,  because  it  gave  Pumblechook  the 
opportunity  he  wanted. 

“Yes,  young  man,”  said  he,  releasing  the  handle  of  the  article  in  question, 
retiring  a step  or  two  from  my  table,  and  speaking  for  the  behoof  of  the  landlord 
and  waiter  at  the  door,  “I  will  leave  that  teapot  alone.  You  are  right,  young 
man.  For  once,  you  are  right.  I forgit  myself  when  I take  such  an  interest  in 
your  breakfast,  as  to  wish  your  frame,  exhausted  by  the  debilitating  effects  of 
prodigygality,  to  be  stimilated  by  the  ’olesome  nourishment  of  your  forefathers. 
And  yet,”  said  Pumblechook,  turning  to  the  landlord  and  waiter,  and  pointing 
me  out  at  arm’s  length,  “ this  is  him  as  I ever  sported  with  in  his  days  of  happy 
infancy!  Tell  me  not  it  cannot  be  ; I tell  you  this  is  him ! ” 

A low  murmur  from  the  two  replied.  The  waiter  appeared  to  be  particularly 
affected. 

“This  is  him,”  said  Pumblechook,  “as  I have  rode  in  my  shay-eart.  This  is 
him  as  I have  seen  brought  up  by  hand.  This  is  him  untoe  the  sister  of  which  I 
was  uncle  by  marriage,  as  her  name  was  Georgiana  M’ria  from  her  own  mother,  let 
him  deny  it  if  he  can  ! ” 

The  waiter  seemed  convinced  that  I could  not  deny  it,  and  that  it  gave  the  case 
a black  look. 

“ Young  man,”  said  Pumblechook,  screwing  his  head  at  me  in  the  old  fashion, 
“ you  air  a going  to  Joseph.  What  does  it  matter  to  me,  you  ask  me,  where  you 
air  a going  ? I say  to  you,  Sir,  you  air  a going  to  Joseph.” 

The  waiter  coughed,  as  if  he  modestly  invited  me  to  get  over  that. 

“ Now,”  said  Pumblechook,  and  all  this  with  a most  exasperating  air  of  saying  in 
the  cause  of  virtue  what  was  perfectly  convincing  and  conclusive,  “ I will  tell  you 
what  to  say  to  Joseph.  Here  is  Squires  of  the  Boar  present,  known  and  respected 
in  this  town,  and  here  is  William,  which  his  father’s  name  was  Potkins  if  I do  not 
deceive  myself.” 

“ You  do  not,  sir,”  said  William. 

“ In  their  presence,”  pursued  Pumblechook,  “ I will  tell  you,  young  man,  what 
tasay  to  Joseph.  Says  you,  4 Joseph,  I have  this  day  seen  my  earliest  benefactor 
and  the  founder  of  my  fortun’s.  I will  name  no  names,  Joseph,  but  so  they  are 
pleased  to  call  him  up-town,  and  I have  seen  that  man.’  ” 

“I  swear  I don’t  see  him  here,”  said  I. 

“ Say  that  likewise,”  retorted  Pumblechook.  “ Say  you  said  that,  and  even 
Joseph  will  probably  betray  surprise.” 

“ There  you  quite  mistake  him,”  said  I.  “ I know  better.” 

“ Says  you,”  Pumblechook  went  on,  “‘Joseph,  I have  seen  that  man,  and  that 
man  bears  you  no  malice  and  bears  me  no  malice.  He  knows  your  character, 
Joseph,  and  is  well  acquainted  with  your  pig-headedness  and  ignorance ; and 
he  knows  my  character,  Joseph,  and  he  knows  my  want  of  gratitoode.  Yes, 
Tosepk,’  says  you,”  here  Pumblechook  shook  his  head  and  hand  at  me,  “ * he 
knows  my  total  deficiency  of  common  human  gratitoode.  He  knows  it,  Joseph. 


5oo 


Great  Expectations . 


as  none  can.  You  do  not  know  it,  Joseph,  having  no  call  to  know  it,  but  that 
man  do.’ ” 

Windy  donkey  as  he  was,  it  really  amazed  me  that  he  could  have  the  face  to 
talk  thus  to  mine. 

“ Says  you,  * Joseph,  he  gave  me  a little  message,  which  I will  now  repeat.  It 
was,  that  in  my  being  brought  low,  he  saw  the  finger  of  Providence.  He 
knowed  that  finger  when  he  saw  it,  Joseph,  and  he  saw  it  plain.  It  pinted  out 
this  writing,  Joseph.  Reward  of  ingratitoode  to  earliest  benefactor , and  fowider  of 
fortunes.  But  that  man  said  that  he  did  not  repent  of  what  he  had  done,  Joseph. 
Not  at  all.  It  was  right  to  do  it,  it  was  kind  to  do  it,  it  was  benevolent  to  do  it, 
and  he  would  do  it  again.’  ” 

“ It’s  a pity,”  said  I,  scornfully,  as  I finished  my  interrupted  breakfast,  “ that 
the  man  did  not  say  what  he  had  done  and  would  do  again.” 

“ Squires  of  the  Boar  !”  Pumblechook  was  now  addressing  the  landlord,  “ and 
William  ! I have  no  objections  to  your  mentioning,  either  up-town  or  down-town, 
if  such  should  be  your  wishes,  that  it  was  right  to  do  it,  kind  to  do  it,  benevolent 
to  do  it,  and  that  I would  do  it  again.” 

With  those  words  the  Impostor  shook  them  both  by  the  hand,  with  an  air,  and 
left  the  house  ; leaving  me  much  more  astonished  than  delighted  by  the  virtues  of 
that  same  indefinite  ‘‘it.”  I was  not  long  after  him  in  leaving  the  house  too,  and 
when  I went  down  the  High-street  I saw  him  holding  forth  (no  doubt  to  the  same 
effect)  at  his  shop  door  to  a select  group,  who  honoured  me  with  very  unfavourable 
glances  as  I passed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way. 

But,  it  was  only  the  pleasanter  to  turn  to  Biddy  and  to  Joe,  whose  great 
forbearance  shone  more  brightly  than  before,  if  that  could  be,  contrasted  with  this 
brazen  pretender.  I went  towards  them  slowly,  for  my  limbs  were  weak,  but 
with  a sense  of  increasing  relief  as  I drew  nearer  to  them,  and  a sense  of  leaving 
arrogance  and  untruthfulness  further  and  further  behind. 

The  June  weather  was  delicious.  The  sky  was  blue,  the  larks  were  soaring 
high  over  the  green  corn,  I thought  all  that  countryside  more  beautiful  and 
peaceful  by  far  than  I had  ever  known  it  to  be  yet.  Many  pleasant  pictures  of 
the  life  that  I would  lead  there,  and  of  the  change  for  the  better  that  would  come 
over  my  character  when  I had  a guiding  spirit  at  my  side  whose  simple  faith  and 
clear  home-wisdom  I had  proved,  beguiled  my  way.  They  awakened  a tender 
emotion  in  me ; for,  my  heart  was  softened  by  my  return,  and  such  a change  had 
come  to  pass,  that  I felt  like  one  who  was  toiling  home  barefoot  from  distant  travel, 
and  whose  wanderings  had  lasted  many  years. 

The  schoolhouse  where  Biddy  was  mistress,  I had  never  seen ; but,  the  little 
roundabout  lane  by  which  I entered  the  village  for  quietness’  sake,  took  me  past 
it.  I was  disappointed  to  find  that  the  day  was  a holiday  ; no  children  were  there, 
and  Biddy’s  house  was  closed.  Some  hopeful  notion  of  seeing  her,  busily  engaged 
in  her  daily  duties,  before  she  saw  me,  had  been  in  my  mind  and  was  defeated. 

But,  the  forge  was  a very  short  distance  off,  and  I went  towards  it  under  the 
sweet  green  limes,  listening  for  the  clink  of  Joe’s  hammer.  Long  after  I ought 
to  have  heard  it,  and  long  after  I had  fancied  I heard  it  and  found  it  but  a fancy, 
all  was  still.  The  limes  were  there,  and  the  white  thorns  were  there,  and  the 
chestnut-trees  were  there,  and  their  leaves  rustled  harmoniously  when  I stopped  to 
listen  ; but,  the  clink  of  Joe’s  hammer  was  not  in  the  midsummer  wind. 

Almost  fearing,  without  knowing  why,  to  come  in  vie\v  of  the  forge,  I saw  it  at 
lastP  and  saw  that  it  was  closed.  No  gleam  of  fire,  no  glittering  shower  of  sparks, 
no  roar  of  bellows ; all  shut  up,  and  still. 

But,  the  house  was  not  deserted,  and  the  best  parlour  seemed  to  be  in  use,  for 
there  w%re  white  curtains  fluttering  in  its  window,  and  the  window  was  open  and 


I am  too  late , and  become  penitent . 


5Q\ 

gay  with  flowers.  I went  softly  towards  it,  meaning  to  peep  over  the  flowers,  when 
Joe  and  Biddy  stood  before  me,  arm  in  arm. 

At  first  Biddy  gave  a cry,  as  if  she  thought  it  was  my  apparition,  but  in  another 
moment  she  was  in  my  embrace.  I wept  to  see  her,  and  she  wept  to  see  me  ; I, 
because  she  looked  so  fresh  and  pleasant ; she,  because  I looked  so  worn  and  white, 
“But,  dear  Biddy,  how  smart  you  are !” 

“ Yes,  dear  Pip.” 

“ And  Joe,  how  smart  you  are  ! ” 

“Yes,  dear  old  Pip,  old  chap.” 

I looked  at  both  of  them,  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then 

“ It’s  my  wedding-day,”  cried  Biddy,  in  a burst  of  happiness,  “ and  I am  married 
to  Joe !” 

********* 

They  had  taken  me  into  the  kitchen,  and  I had  laid  my  head  down  on  the  old 
deal  table.  Biddy  held  one  of  my  hands  to  her  lips,  and  Joe’s  restoring  touch 
was  on  my  shoulder,  “Which  he  warn’t  strong  enough,  my  dear,  fur  to  be 
surprised,”  said  Joe.  And  Biddy  said,  “ I ought  to  have  thought  of  it,  dear  Joe, 
but  I was  too  happy.”  They  were  both  so  overjoyed  to  see  me,  so  proud  to  see 
me,  so  touched  by  my  coming  to  them,  so  delighted  that  I should  have  come  by 
accident  to  make  their  day  complete  ! 

My  first  thought  was  one  of  great  thankfulness  that  I had  never  breathed  this 
last  baffled  hope  to  Joe.  How  often,  while  he  was  with  me  in  my  illness,  had  it 
risen  to  my  lips.  How  irrevocable  would  have  been  his  knowledge  of  it,  if  he  had 
remained  with  me  but  another  hour ! 

“Dear  Biddy,”  said  I,  “you  have  the  best  husband  in  the  whole  world,  and  if 

you  could  have  seen  him  by  my  bed  you  would  have But  no,  you  couldn’t  love 

him  better  than  you  do.” 

“No,  I couldn’t  indeed,”  said  Biddy. 

“And,  dear  Joe,  you  have  the  best  wife  in  the  whole  world,  and  she  will  make 
you  as  happy  as  even  you  deserve  to  be,  you  dear,  good,  noble  Joe  ! ” 

Joe  looked  at  me  with  a quivering  lip,  and  fairly  put  his  sleeve  before  his  eyes. 
“ And  Joe  and  Biddy  both,  as  you  have  been  to  church  to-day  and  are  in 
charity  and  love  with  all  mankind,  receive  my  humble  thanks  for  all  you  have  done 
for  me,  and  all  I have  so  ill  repaid ! And  when  I say  that  I am  going  away 
within  the  hour,  for  I am  soon  going  abroad,  and  that  I shall  never  rest  until  I 
have  worked  for  the  money  with  which  you  have  kept  me  out  of  prison,  and  have 
sent  it  to  you,  don’t  think,  dear  Joe  and  Biddy,  that  if  I could  repay  it  a thousand 
times  over,  I suppose  I could  cancel  a farthing  of  the  debt  I owe  you,  or  that  I 
would  do  so  if  I could ! ” 

They  were  both  melted  by  these  words,  and  both  entreated  me  to  say  no  more. 
“ But  I must  say  more.  Dear  Joe,  I hope  you  will  have  children  to  love,  and 
that  some  little  fellow  will  sit  in  this  chimney  corner  of  a winter  night,  who  may 
remind  you  of  another  little  fellow  gone  out  of  it  for  ever.  Don’t  tell  him,  Joe, 
that  I was  thankless ; don’t  tell  him,  Biddy,  that  I was  ungenerous  and  unjust ; 
only  tell  him  that  I honoured  you  both,  because  you  were  both  so  good  and  true, 
and  that,  as  your  child,  I said  it  would  be  natural  to  him  to  grow  up  a much 
better  man  than  I did.” 

“ I ain’t  a going,”  said  Joe,  from  behind  his  sleeve,  “ to  tell  him  nothink  o’  that 
natur,  Pip.  Nor  Biddy  ain’t.  Nor  yet  no  one  ain’t.” 

“ And  now,  though  I know  you  have  already  done  it  in  your  own  kind  hearts, 
pray  tell  me,  both,  that  you  forgive  me ! Pray  let  me  hear  you  say  the  words, 
that  I may  cariy  the  sound  of  them  away  with  me,  and  then  I shall  be  able  t4 
believe  that  you  can  trust  me,  and  think  better  of  me,  in  the  time  to  come ! ” 


502  Great  Expectations. 

“O  dear  old  Pip,  old  chap,”  said  Joe.  “God  knows  as  I forgive  veil,  if  1 
have  anythink  to  forgive!  ” 

“ Amen ! And  God  knows  I do  ! ” echoed  Biddy. 

“ Now  let  me  go  up  and  look  at  my  old  little  room,  and  rest  there  a few  minutes 
by  myself.  And  then  when  I have  eaten  and  drunk  with  you,  go  with  me  as  far 
as  the  finger-post,  dear  Joe  and  Biddy,  before  we  say  good-bye !” 

I sold  all  I had,  and  put  aside  as  much  as  I could,  for  a composition  with  my 
creditors — who  gave  me  ample  time  to  pay  them  in  full — and  I went  out  and 
joined  Herbert.  Within  a month,  I had  quitted  England,  and  within  two  months 
I was  clerk  to  Clarriker  and  Co.,  and  within  four  months  I assumed  my  first  un- 
divided responsibility.  For,  the  beam  across  the  parlour  ceiling  at  Mill  Pond 
Bank,  had  then  ceased  to  tremble  under  old  Bill  Barley’s  growls  and  was  at  peace, 
and  Herbert  had  gone  away  to  marry  Clara,  and  I was  left  in  sole  charge  of  the 
Eastern  Branch  until  he  brought  her  back. 

Many  a year  went  round,  before  I was  a partner  in  the  House ; but,  I lived 
happily  with  Herbert  and  his  wife,  and  lived  frugally,  and  paid  my  debts,  and 
maintained  a constant  correspondence  with  Biddy  and  Joe.  It  was  not  until  I 
became  third  in  the  Firm,  that  Clarriker  betrayed  me  to  Herbert ; but,  he  then 
declared  that  the  secret  of  Herbert’s  partnership  had  been  long  enough  upon  his 
conscience,  and  he  must  tell  it.  So,  he  told  it,  and  Herbert  was  as  much  moved 
as  amazed,  and  the  dear  fellow  and  I were  not  the  worse  friends  for  the  long  con- 
cealment. I must  not  leave  it  to  be  supposed  that  we  were  ever  a great  House,  or 
that  we  made  mints  of  money.  We  were  not  in  a grand  way  of  business,  but  we 
had  a good  name,  and  worked  for  our  profits,  and  did  very  well.  We  owr  I so 
much  to  Herbert’s  ever  cheerful  industry  and  readiness,  that  I often  wondered  how 
I had  conceived  that  old  idea  of  his  inaptitude,  until  I was  one  day  enlighten  d by 
the  reflection,  that  perhaps  the  inaptitude  had  never  been  in  him  at  all,  bu,  had 
been  in  me. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

For  eleven  years  I had  not  seen  Joe  nor  Biddy  with  my  bodily  eyes — though  they 
had  both  been  often  before  my  fancy  in  the  East — when,  upon  an  evening  in 
December,  an  hour  or  two  after  dark,  I laid  my  hand  softly  on  the  latch  of  the  old 
kitchen  door.  I touched  it  so  softly  that  I was  not  heard,  and  I looked  in  unseen 
There,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  old  place  by  the  kitchen  firelight,  as  hale  and  as 
strong  as  ever,  though  a little  grey,  sat  Joe  ; and  there,  fenced  into  the  corner  with 
Joe’s  leg,  and  sitting  on  my  own  little  stool  looking  at  the  fire,  was 1 again  ! 

4 * We  giv’  him  the  name  of  Pip  for  your  sake,  dear  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  dekghted 
when  I took  another  stool  by  the  child’s  side  (but  I did  not  rumple  his  hair).  “ and 
we  hoped  he  might  grow  a little  bit  like  you,  and  we  think  he  do.” 

I thought  so  too,  and  I took  him  out  for  a walk  next  morning,  and  we  talked 
immensely,  understanding  one  another  to  perfection.  And  I took  him  down  to 
the  churchyard,  and  set  him  on  a certain  tombstone  there,  and  he  showed  me 
from  that  elevation  which  stone  was  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Philip  Pirrip.  late  of 
this  Parish,  and  Also  Georgiana,  Wife  of  the  Above. 

“ Biddy,”  said  I,  when  I talked  with  her  after  dinner,  as  her  little  girl  lay  sleeping 
in  her  lap,  “ you  must  give  Pip  to  me,  one  of  these  days ; or  lend  him,  al] 
tvents.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  Biddy,  gently.  “You  must  marry.” 


The  Figure  in  the  Ruin . 


503 


“ So  Herbert  and  Clara  say,  but  I don’t  think  I shall,  Biddy.  I have  so  settled 
down  in  their  home,  that  it’s  not  at  all  likely.  I am  already  quite  an  old  bachelor.” 
Biddy  looked  down  at  her  child,  and  put  its  little  hand  to  her  lips,  and  then  put 
the  good  matronly  hand  with  which  she  had  touched  it,  into  mine.  There  was 
something  in  the  action  and  in  the  light  pressure  of  Biddy’s  wedding-ring,  that 
had  a very  pretty  eloquence  in  it. 

“ Dear  Pip,”  said  Biddy,  “ you  are  sure  you  don’t  fret  for  her  ? ” 

**  O no — I think  not,  Biddy.” 

“ Tell  me  as  an  old  friend.  Have  you  quite  forgotten  her  ? ” 

“My  dear  Biddy,  I have  forgotten  nothing  in  my  life  that  ever  had  a foremost 
place  there,  and  little  that  ever  had  any  place  there.  But  that  poor  dream,  as  I 
once  used  to  call  it,  has  all  gone  by,  Biddy,  all  gone  by ! ” 

Nevertheless,  I knew  while  I said  those  words,  that  I secretly  intended  to  revisit 
the  site  of  the  old  house  that  evening,  alone,  for  her  sake.  Yes,  even  so.  For 
Estella’s  sake. 

I had  heard  of  her  as  leading  a most  unhappy  life,  and  as  being  separated  from 
her  husband,  who  had  used  her  with  great  cruelty,  and  who  had  become  quite 
renowned  as  a compound  of  pride,  avarice,  brutality,  and  meanness.  And  I had 
heard  of  the  death  of  her  husband,  from  an  accident  consequent  on  his  ill-treat- 
ment of  a horse.  This  release  had  befallen  her  some  two  years  before  ; for  any- 
thing I knew,  she  was  married  again. 

The  early  dinner-hour  at  Joe’s  left  me  abundance  of  time,  without  hurrying  my 
talk  with  Biddy,  to  walk  over  to  the  old  spot  before  dark.  But,  what  with 
loitering  on  the  way,  to  look  at  old  objects  and  to  think  of  old  times,  the  day 
had  quite  declined  when  I came  to  the  place. 

There  was  no  house  now,  no  brewery,  no  building  whatever  left,  but  the  wall 
of  the  old  garden.  The  cleared  space  had  been  enclosed  with  a rough  fence,  and 
looking  over  it,  I saw  that  some  of  the  old  ivy  had  struck  root  anew,  and  was 
growing  green  on  low  quiet  mounds  of  ruin.  A gate  in  the  fence  standing  ajar,  I 
.pushed  it  open,  and  went  in. 

A cold  silvery  mist  had  veiled  the  afternoon,  and  the  moon  was  not  yet  up  to 
scatter  it.  But,  the  stars  were  shining  beyond  the  mist,  and  the  moon  was  coming, 
and  the  evening  was  not  dark.  I could  trace  out  where  every  part  of  the  old 
house  had  been,  and  where  the  brewery  had  been,  and  where  the  gates,  and  where 
the  casks.  I had  done  so,  and  was  looking  along  the  desolate  garden- walk,  when 
I beheld  a solitary  figure  in  it. 

The  figure  showed  itself  aware  of  me  as  I advanced.  It  had  been  moving 
towards  me,  but  it  stood  still.  As  I drew  nearer,  I saw  it  to  be  the  figure  of  a 
woman.  As  I drew  nearer  yet,  it  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  it  stopped,  and 
let  me  come  up  with  it.  Then,  it  faltered  as  if  much  surprised,  and  uttered  my 
name,  and  I cried  out : 

“Estella ! ” 

“I  am  greatly  changed.  I wonder  you  know  me.” 

The  freshness  of  her  beauty  was  indeed  gone,  but  its  indescribable  majesty  and 
its  indescribable  charm  remained.  Those  attractions  in  it,  I had  seen  before ; 
what  I had  never  seen  before,  was  the  saddened  softened  light  of  the  once  proud 
eyes ; what  I had  never  felt  before,  was  the  friendly  touch  of  the  once  insensible  hand. 

We  sat  down  on  a bench  that  was  near,  and  I said,  “ After  so  many  years,  it  is 
strange  that  we  should  thus  meet  again,  Estella,  here  where  our  first  meeting 
was  ! Do  you  often  come  back  ? ” 

“ I have  never  been  here  since.” 

“ Nor  I.” 

The  moon  began  to  rise,  and  I thought  of  the  placid  look  at  the  white  ceiling, 


5°4 


Great  Expectations . 


which  had  passed  away.  The  moon  began  to  rise,  and  I thought  of  the  pressure 
on  my  hand  when  I had  spoken  the  last  words  he  had  heard  on  earth. 

Estella  was  the  next  to  break  the  silence  that  ensued  between  us. 

“ I have  very  often  hoped  and  intended  to  come  back,  but  have  been  prevented 
by  many  circumstances.  Poor,  poor  old  place ! ” 

The  silvery  mist  was  touched  with  the  first  rays  of  the  moonlight,  and  the 
same  rays  touched  the  tears  that  dropped  from  her  eyes.  Not  knowing  that  I 
saw  them,  and  setting  herself  to  get  the  better  of  them,  she  said  quietly : 

“Were  you  wondering,  as  you  walked  along,  how  it  came  to  be  left  in  this 
condition  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Estella.” 

“The  ground  belongs  to  me.  It  is  the  only  possession  I have  not  relin- 
quished. Everything  else  has  gone  from  me,  little  by  little,  but  I have  kept 
this.  It  was  the  subject  of  the  only  determined  resistance  I made  in  all  the 
wretched  years.” 

“ Is  it  to  be  built  on  ? ” 

“At  last  it  is.  I came  here  to  take  leave  of  it  before  its  change.  And  you,” 
she  said,  in  a voice  of  touching  interest  to  a wanderer,  “you  live  abroad  still.” 

« Still.” 

“ And  do  well,  I am  sure  ? ” 

“ I work  pretty  hard  for  a sufficient  living,  and  therefore — Yes,  I do  well ! ” 

“ I have  often  thought  of  you,”  said  Estella. 

“ Have  you?  ” 

“Of  late,  very  often.  There  was  a long  hard  time  when  I kept  far  from  me, 
the  remembrance  of  what  I had  thrown  away  when  I was  quite  ignorant  of  its 
worth.  But,  since  my  duty  has  not  been  incompatible  with  the  admission  of  that 
remembrance,  I have  given  it  a place  in  my  heart.” 

“You  have  always  held  your  place  in  my  heart,”  I answered. 

And  we  were  silent  again  until  she  spoke. 

“ I little  thought,”  said  Estella,  “ that  I should  take  leave  of  you  in  taking 
leave  of  this  spot.  I am  very  glad  to  do  so.” 

“ Glad  to  part  again,  Estella  ? To  me,  parting  is  a painful  thing.  To  me,  the 
remembrance  of  our  last  parting  has  been  ever  mournful  and  painful.” 

“But  you  said  to  me,”  returned  Estella,  very  earnestly,  “‘God  bless  you, 
God  forgive  you  ! * And  if  you  could  say  that  to  me  then,  you  will  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  to  me  now — now,  when  suffering  has  been  stronger  than  all  other 
teaching,  and  has  taught  me  to  understand  what  your  heart  used  to  be.  I have 
been  bent  and  broken,  but — I hope— into  a better  shape.  Be  as  considerate  and 
good  to  me  as  you  were,  and  tell  me  we  are  friends.” 

“We  are  friends,”  said  I,  rising  and  bending  over  her,  as  she  rose  from  the 
bench. 

“And  will  continue  friends  apart,”  said  Estella. 

I took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  we  went  out  of  the  ruined  place ; and,  as  the 
morning  mists  had  risen  long  ago  when  I first  left  the  forge,  so,  the  evening  mists 
were  rising  now,  and  in  all  the  broad  expanse  of  tranquil  light  they  showed  to  me, 
I saw  no  shadow  of  another  parting  from  her. 


THE  END. 


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